Rondeau: Morrow-Land

In Morrow-Land there lies a day
In shadows clad, in garments grey
When sunless hours will come, My Dear
And skies will lose their lustre clear
Because I shall be leagues away.

Has Fate no other—kindlier way?
No gentler hands on me to lay,
Than I to go—than you stay here
In Morrow-Land?

And O! These days will be so dear—
Throughout the cold and coming year,
This Passion Week of gold and grey
Will haunt my heart and bless my way
In Morrow-Land.
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