’Tis Fancy’s child, and folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.
Cotton.
As Time glides on in silent flow,
To-day yields to to-morrow;
To-morrow’s expectations grow
To-day’s own bliss or sorrow.
Still, as to-morrow’s sun appears,
It shines upon to-day;