TELL me not of morrows, sweet;
All to-day is fair, and ours,
Thine and mine;
Mar not Now with needing more.
Neither speak of yesterdays;
Lose not Now with backward gaze,
Lingering on what went before.
Watch for all to-day's new flowers,
Mine and thine,
Else to-day were incomplete.

Nay, but speak of morrows, sweet;
Lest to-day seem loss of ours,
Thine and mine,
Leaving nought to come again.
Nay, but speak of yesterdays,
Lest, forgetting trodden ways,
We have trodden them in vain.
Make one love-time of all hours,
Mine and thine,
Else to-day were incomplete.

Augusta Davies Webster

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