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Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tales of a Wayside Inn

TO-MORROW

'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep
  My little lambs are folded like the flocks;
  From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks
  Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep
Their solitary watch on tower and steep;
  Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,
  And through the opening door that time unlocks
  Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.
To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,
  Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide,
  And tremble to be happy with the rest."
And I make answer: "I am satisfied;
  I dare not ask; I know not what is best;
  God hath already said what shall betide."