Poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

* * *

I'll not confer with Sorrow
Till to-morrow;
But Joy shall have her way
This very day.

Ho, eglantine and cresses
For her tresses!—
Let Care, the beggar, wait
Outside the gate.

Tears if you will—but after
Mirth and laughter;
Then, folded hands on breast
And endless rest.

1. Latakia
2. A Petition
3. At the Funeral of a Minor Poet
4. At a Reading
5. Alec Yeaton's Son

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