Poems (Van Rensselaer)/Trysts

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TRYSTS
The clock strikes twelve to mark the trystTo-day and young To-morrow keep;Their eyes have met, their lips have kissed,While we two watch, all else asleep.
Now, though this newly born To-day,That was To-morrow, soon must setThe drowsy sun upon its wayAnd wake the world its bread to get—
The toil of man, what matters it?Or when the dawn shall break, or how?It matters only that we sit,All else asleep, together now.
And when this young To-day, grown old,Another Morrow turns to see,Again shall happy vigil holdMy clock and I, awaiting thee.
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