Each morn the bees fly forth, to fill the growing comb,
And levy golden tribute of the uncomplaining flowers:
To-morrow is their care; they toil for rest to-morrow;
But man deferreth duty's task, and loveth ease to-day.
To-morrow, is that lamp upon the marsh, which a traveller never reacheth;
To-morrow, the rainbow's cup, coveted prize of ignorance;
To-morrow, the shifting anchorage, dangerous trust of mariners;
To-morrow, the wrecker's beacon, wily snare of the destroyer.
Reconcile convictions with delay, and To-morrow is a fatal lie;
Frighten resolutions into action, To-morrow is a wholesome truth: