Flower-de-luce: To-morrow

'Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep My little lambs are folded like the flocks; From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep Their solitary watch on tower and steep; Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, And through the opening door that time unlocks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries to me: 'Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest.' And I make answer: 'I am satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best; God hath already said what shall betide.'