SWEET friend of mine, it doesn't pay to tell of things you will achieve; the golden era is today; and promises too oft deceive. "Tomorrow I will cut much grass, tomorrow prizes will be won." Tomorrow! But today, alas, goes by and you have nothing done. Tomorrow is a vision dim, that makes the dreamer's heart feel good. Today the man of sense and vim goes forth and saws three cords of wood. Today we know we are alive, our bones and thews obey our will; it is our privilege to strive, and put some kopecks in the till. Tomorrow, when the madding crowds of workers throng along the pave, we may be wearing jaunty shrouds, all neatly dolled up for the grave. The things I've done may count a bit, and gain some measure of applause, when I this daily round have quit, when I have crossed my pulseless paws. The lofty ends that I pursue won't make a record till they're won; the things that I intend to do, will never count until they're done. And so, my friend, again I say—and, saying it, I'm strangely moved—the golden era is today; don't let it vanish unimproved. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ONE GRAY HAIR by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR A SONNET. THE ROSE AND LILY by PHILIP AYRES MEMORY by AMANDA LUELLA BARLOW WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO by ROBERT BURNS STILL DAYS AND STORMY by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON BALLADE OF THE FOREST IN SUMMER by PATRICK REGINALD CHALMERS |