To-morrow, that immortal jester, patched in the motley of our hopes,
Whose smile is as soft as a summer wind blown ‘cross equatorial gardens,
Whose tread is lighter than the football of ghosts,
Leads us with a little silver bell through the labyrinthine corridors of yesterday and to-day,
Leads us, with a beck in his eye and a bauble in his hand, unto the throne room of his King,
Who with a gesture of an eyelash prorogues our parleys with Circumstance
And inters us with our memories and our hopes still fat upon our wills in the sealed dungeons of Oblivion.
Benjamin De Casseres.
Source: The Sun, Feb. 20, 1916, Section 6, p. 11