Sunset is usually where poems go to say goodbye, and Skyril's "Tomorrow" begins there, yet it keeps turning toward the morning. The speaker sits "by the sunset," sharing its glow and claiming "no regrets." Then a breeze passes, "moaning, filled with sorrow," and a soul is "free at last." Whatever has been lost, the poem never says. The speaker answers it with the same stubborn sentence three times: I dream about tomorrow. The central idea is that grief and hope can share the same seat. The poem doesn't cure sorrow. It refuses to let sorrow have the last word.
Though printed as one block, the poem falls into three quatrains, each closing on a version of that refrain. The rhyme scheme is quietly clever. Every even line ends on the same sound: "glow," "tomorrow," "sorrow," "tomorrow," "hollow," "tomorrow." The odd lines don't rhyme at all ("regrets," "last," "mists"), which gives the poem a loose, breathy quality, as if it were being thought aloud rather than composed. Yet the ear keeps being pulled back to that one vowel, and the result is that "sorrow" and "tomorrow" become rhyme partners. The poem's argument is built into its sound, because you can't say one word without echoing the other. "Hollow" joins them in the last stanza, so emptiness, grief and the future all chime together.
The rhythm supports this. Lines run short, mostly five to eight syllables, with no strict metre. "Tomorrow" has a soft, falling ending, its stress landing mid-word and the final syllable fading away, so each stanza closes on something unfinished. The one exception is "A soul is free at last," which has three firm beats and ends on a hard *t*. It is the only line that sounds like a door closing, and it is surrounded by lines that won't close.
The imagery works by contrast. As the poem goes on, the light drains away, from "glow" to "darkness" to "ghostly mists," while the speaker's mood moves the opposite way, from wistful dreaming to a smile. The breeze is the most interesting image. It "brushes passed," touching and moving on, and it moans like something alive. Set beside the word "soul," it invites a reading, and this is an inference, not a certainty, in which the wind stands for someone or something departing. "Free at last" is double-edged, since freedom can mean release from pain as well as loss. That complicates the sorrow with a trace of relief. The dashes after "passed" and "sorrow" make those lines trail off like the breeze itself. And the earlier claim of "no regrets" suggests a grief without guilt, a clean ache rather than a tormented one.
The final stanza is where the poem turns. "Something fills the hollow" is deliberately vague. The speaker doesn't name the something, whether memory, acceptance or hope, and the vagueness feels honest, since people often can't say what has eased them. The "So" in "So I smile" ties the smile directly to that filling, and the smile arrives in the least cheerful setting imaginable, among "ghostly mists." Even the refrain shifts. First comes "But dreaming of tomorrow," then "But I still dream about tomorrow," then "As I dream about tomorrow." The first two begin with "But," setting the dreaming against the sadness, and "still" admits that it takes effort. In the last version, "As" lets the two happen at once, with no argument left. A single small conjunction carries the speaker from defiance to something like peace.
What makes the poem worth reading is that it doesn't pretend to answer anything. It is modest and compact, and it trusts repetition. A refrain can sound like someone repeating a sentence to themselves until they believe it, and by the third time the repeating has become believing. For a student of poetry, it shows how an ordinary word like "tomorrow" can gather weight through placement, how rhyme can make an argument without stating it, and how a small change in wording can show a feeling changing.