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
Shall be free from pain and sorrow,
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.