I must, for I fear To-morrow; this is the Cassava's food;
Why should I? let me trust To-morrow,—this is the Cassava's poison.
Lo, it is the even of To-day,—a day so lately a To-morrow;
Where are those high resolves, those hopes of yesternight?
O faint fond heart, still shall thy whisper be, To-morrow,
And must the growing avalanche of sin roll down that easy slope?
Alas, it is ponderous, and moving on in might, that a Sisyphus may not stop it;
But haste thee with the lever of a prayer, and stem its strength To-day:
For its race may speedily be run, and this poor hut, thyself,
Be whelmed in death and suffocating guilt, that dreary Alpine snow-wreath.