Hermann Hagedorn

BREATHE not the word Tomorrow in her ears.

Tomorrow is for men who send their ships

Over the sea to moor at alien slips;

For dreamers, dawdlers, martyrs, pioneers,

Not for this golden mote. To her appears

No hovering dark that prophesies eclipse.

Grace of the swallow in the swaying hips,

Heart of the swallow, knowing not the years!

Breathe not a word of beauty that shall fade,

Of lagging steps, of bare and lonely sorrow

On roads that other dancing feet have found

Beyond the grove where life with laughter played.

Breathe not a word of that grim land Tomorrow,

Lest she should quake to ashes at the sound.