Pressing on us everywhere.
And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,
On their shoulders held the sky.”
Quite exceptional is the temperament impersonated by Wordsworth in one who seemed a man of cheerful yesterdays and confident to-morrows.
Longfellow has his midnight reflection on To-morrow; himself a watcher and contemplative, his little ones asleep: and thus the pensées end:
“To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,
Who cries to me, ‘Remember Barmecide,
And tremble to be happy with the rest.’