For Information that the Winds might deign.
Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,
And whispered slowly—sadly—“Guess Again."
Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing
Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling;
But take To-day—and make the Most of It,
I think it's Just Too Sweet for anything!
What of To-morrow—say you? Oh, my Friend—
To-morrow's Not been Touched. It's yet to Spend.
I often wonder if we should expire