To-Morrow (Fragment XX) by Sydney Owenson Morgan

Nessun maggior dolore,
Che recordarsi del tempo felice, nella miseria.” 

Visions of fleeting pleasure! spare, oh! spare me!
Hence! shades of many a bliss, and many a sorrow;
In vain from this cool medium* would ye tear me,
With joys indeed to-day — but, what to-morrow?

For every blessing your possession brought me
Left in its absence still a kindred sorrow,
And tho’ to-day with many a joy you sought me,
You’d leave me, lost to every joy, to-morrow.

Like this rich flow’r, which now in sweet decay
Droops on my breast its head in seeming sorrow;
For though its beauties charm each sense to-day,
My breast will only wear its thorns to-morrow.

* “A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain.”    Pope.

From: Owenson, Miss, The Lay of an Irish Harp; or Metrical Fragments, 1807, Richard Phillips: London, pp. 85-86.

Date: 1807

By: Sydney Owenson Morgan (?1781-1859)


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