“I’ll Not Confer With Sorrow”

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.