January 19

'Tis well, for unembodied thought a live,

True house to build—of stubble, wood, nor hay;

So, like bees round the flower by which they thrive,

My thoughts are busy with the informing truth,

And as I build, I feed, and grow in youth—

Hoping to stand fresh, clean, and strong, and gay,

When up the east comes dawning His great day.