Monday, October 28, 2013


Tomorrow greets with weary calm
and brings a tender healing balm;
the moors are filled with golden rum,
the light of bright Elysium.

Nay! not rum, but amber wine
distilled from winter eglantine,
nepenthe-nectar to forget
all the griefs that we have met.

And at eventide we sleep
to dream of joy and never weep;
no tears again will fall for sorrow,
but may for gladness on the morrow.

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