Sonnet Xxxviii: The Morrow's Message

“Thou Ghost,” I said, “and is thy name To-day?— Yesterday's son, with such an abject brow!— And can To-morrow be more pale than thou?” While yet I spoke, the silence answered: “Yea, Henceforth our issue is all grieved and grey, And each beforehand makes such poor avow As of old leaves beneath the budding bough Or night-drift that the sundawn shreds away.” Then cried I: “Mother of many malisons, O Earth, receive me to thy dusty bed!” But therewithal the tremulous silence said: “Lo! Love yet bids thy lady greet thee once:— Yea, twice,—whereby thy life is still the sun's; And thrice,—whereby the shadow of death is dead.”