I'll Not Confer With Sorrow

A poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

I'll not confer with Sorrow
Till to-morrow;
But Joy shall have her way
This very day.

Ho, eglantine and cresses
For her tresses!--
Let Care, the beggar, wait
Outside the gate.

Tears if you will--but after
Mirth and laughter;
Then, folded hands on breast
And endless rest.

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