A sonnet meant to remind you that your work will always be there tomorrow.
Whether the day is overladen grief,
Filled with vague worries that’ll never come,
Which rob the morning’s glory like a thief,
tomorrow, perhaps, is a better one.
When in the swing of things it seems so brief,
These few allotted hours spent in the sun,
With full-green strength as the new leaf is lief,
Now fainted in the night, what’s dun is done.
But in my bed, the chief import, is peace,
The tingling stress is left its course to run,
My blanket is the only thing of fleece,
Its warm-weight, i do not flee under from.
Perhaps tomorrow a merry-go-round,
Perhaps tomorrow a burial shroud,
Perhaps tomorrow these varicose veins,
Will walk among the steep marigold planes.
Whether the day is overladen grief,
Filled with vague worries that’ll never come,
Which rob the morning’s glory like a thief,
tomorrow, perhaps, is a better one.
When in the swing of things it seems so brief,
These few allotted hours spent in the sun,
With full-green strength as the new leaf is lief,
Now fainted in the night, what’s dun is done.
But in my bed, the chief import, is peace,
The tingling stress is left its course to run,
My blanket is the only thing of fleece,
Its warm-weight, i do not flee under from.
Perhaps tomorrow a merry-go-round,
Perhaps tomorrow a burial shroud,
Perhaps tomorrow these varicose veins,
Will walk among the steep marigold planes.