January 14

Sometimes, hard-trying, it seems I cannot pray—

For doubt, and pain, and anger, and all strife.

Yet some poor half-fledged prayer-bird from the nest

May fall, flit, fly, perch—crouch in the bowery breast

Of the large, nation-healing tree of life;—

Moveless there sit through all the burning day,

And on my heart at night a fresh leaf cooling lay.