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George MacDonald - To-Morrow
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My TO-MORROW is but a flitting
Fancy of the brain;
God`s TO-MORROW an angel sitting,
Ready for joy or pain.

My TO-MORROW has no soul,
Dead as yesterdays;
God`s—a brimming silver bowl
Of life that gleams and plays.

My TO-MORROW, I mock you away!
Shadowless nothing, thou!
God`s TO-MORROW, come, dear day,
For God is in thee now.
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