It’s funny. This poem was inspired by Lady Caroline Gray, who was a very foolish and unwholesome person, yet in my hands her Gothic pining turned into a sweet, wise acceptance of the Here and Now. When I intend my poems to be light, they burn black, and when I intend blackness, brightness results. Other contributors to the form and fashion of this poem include Samuel T. Coleridge with his Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Dante Gabriel Rossetti with his “The Blessed Damozel.”
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
whispered the golden Caro.
The scratchings in her sill bar read:
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, yea, tomorrow.”
Where did Sir Sun arise that day,
from left or right his rambling play?
And were they west, the white windmills?
Or western they, the static hills,
in palest green of May?
There is a catch in the heave of her sigh,
Oh, Caro, bear it out – don’t sigh!
Look at the sheaves stacked down below,
and breath the scent of bacon fry.
There is a gleam down the well of her eye,
Oh, Caro, bear it out – don’t cry,
For in a burst of shouts and trills,
a certain company rides nigh.
Now brush and bind the golden hair,
and place the flute and the fiddle there,
Strew some sheaves of Queen Anne’s lace,
Fling wide the doors, let in the air.
And smile. The sun is risen now,
No need to reason whence from or how,
when all is pale, awakening,
with crystal dew smeared on its brow.
Anon, you’ll hear your lover’s stride
by the door, then by your side,
For now, lead in the revelers
to jest and play this Whitsuntide.