The little child goes out to play,
With hope and happy thoughts he goes;
But disappointments cross the way,—
He finds the thorn beneath the rose.
And tired at night to bed he goes,
And dreams 'twill be a brighter day
To-morrow.

The youth goes out to seek his fate,
Through rural roads or crowded streets;
His hope is high, his soul elate,
He counts as friends all whom he meets.
Alas, too soon the fancy fleets,
Yet still he says, “I will be great
To-morrow.”

Grown to a man, in daily strife
With brother men for daily bread,
Reality's too cruel knife
Cuts all his youthful visions dead;
And night oft hears these sad words said,—
“O God, I'll live a better life
To-morrow.”

In gray old age the golden gleam
Still hangs around the fleeting guest;
And, standing just across the stream,
The vision still invites his quest,
As, sinking to his final rest,
He whispers in his dying dream.
To-morrow.

Bright Day of Hope that ever holds
Our earthly joys just out of reach,
And in thy happy hours enfolds
Our dearest deeds and noblest speech;
Oh, drop one flying word, to teach
That life to-day forever molds