December 15

'Tis thine to make, mine to rejoice in thine.

As, hungering for his mother's face and eyes,

The child throws wide the door, back to the wall,

I run to thee, the refuge from poor lies:

Lean dogs behind me whimper, yelp, and whine;

Life lieth ever sick, Death's writhing thrall,

In slavery endless, hopeless, and supine.