Yester-morrow

The nightwind, ah, nightwind shall fetch one the scent. O loves yester-morrows', regrets of the night! The nightingale's sorrow that ends with the light Brings, grieved, no love nearer, alas, to the sight. O loves yester-morrows', regrets of the night!

An ordinary passing day, One much like yester-morrow, Shed its light in timeless gray And all its simple sorrow.

I'll just put it back when I get home,” he thought, not at all suspecting it might be many long yester-morrows again before that might be so.