Life's Sharpest Rapture Is Surcease Of Pain.

Thou Two-faced Year, Mother Of Change And Fate...

Thick February Mists Cling Heavily To The Dead Earth And To Each Leafless Tree, And Closer Down Upon The Hilltops Draw, Dull Forecasts There Of Bright, Sure-coming Spring; Yet The Heart Gathers Hope And Strange Delight From This Dear, Unlovely, Wished-for Sight Of Leaden-misted Twilights Lengthening.

The Little And The Great Are Joined In One By God's Great Force. The Wondrous Golden Sun Is Linked Unto The Glow-worm's Tiny Spark; The Eagle Soars To Heaven In His Flight; And In Those Realms Of Space, All Bathed In Light, Soar None Except The Eagle And The Lark.

Naught Is Too Small And Soft To Turn And Sting.

There Is No Comfort Looking Forth Nor Back, The Present Gives The Lie To All Her Past.