A wild rose by the wayside path
Upheld her head in simple pride;
A passing wind, in sudden wrath,
Outflung her petals far and wide.

And, shuddering, I turned aside:
Is some dread Presence, then, so near?
For through the stillness something cried:
"Tomorrow you may not be here!"

At dawn I heard a wild lark fling
His soul out in a single strain,
As if his gladness in the Spring
His little heart could not restrain.

Now, on the grass, a crimson stain,
The song hath cost the singer dear!
And in my heart the old refrain:
"Tomorrow you may not be here!"

Forgive me if I cannot speak
Of matters trivial and light,
For, O, my heart and lips are weak
And I am filled with strange affright!

Dear, if I read the sign aright,
There is some reason for the fear,
So fold me, hold me close tonight,
Tomorrow I may not be here.