  I. Must I always look for sorrow On the morrow? Must I never have the hope That a life of larger scope Will before my vision ope? II. Ah, 'tis true there is but sorrow On the morrow For the broken hearts that wait, Bearing secretly their fate. Yet the opening of the gate To the blessed heaven's morrow, When the aching, longing heart Comes before my tired eyes With a wondrous sweet surprise. III. But this joy is not for me, Not for me. Alas! for my poor broken heart, With its poisoned arrow's dart. Without hope, alone, apart. |
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