“Thou Ghost,” I said, “and is thy name To-day?— <br />Yesterday's son, with such an abject brow!— <br />And can To-morrow be more pale than thou?” <br />While yet I spoke, the silence answered: “Yea, <br />Henceforth our issue is all grieved and grey, <br />And each beforehand makes such poor avow <br />As of old leaves beneath the budding bough <br />Or night-drift that the sundawn shreds away.” <br />Then cried I: “Mother of many malisons, <br />O Earth, receive me to thy dusty bed!” <br />But therewithal the tremulous silence said: <br />“Lo! Love yet bids thy lady greet thee once:— <br />Yea, twice,—whereby thy life is still the sun's; <br />And thrice,—whereby the shadow of death is dead.”<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxxviii-the-morrow-s-message/
