February 8

Thou wilt interpret life to me, and men,

Art, nature, yea, my own soul's mysteries—

Bringing, truth out, clear-joyous, to my ken,

Fair as the morn trampling the dull night. Then

The lone hill-side shall hear exultant cries;

The joyous see me joy, the weeping weep;

The watching smile, as Death breathes on me his cold sleep.