Sonnet Xxxviii: The Morrow's Message

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