To A Friend With A Calendar
The mighty circle of the year.
All the clean, unsullied days
Silent wait, to blame or praise.
Each thin leaf, couldst thou but see,
Beareth all life's mystery,
Love and loss and life and death,-
Pluck them, then, with bated breath.
Bated breath? Nay, fearlessly;
God hath said what is to be.
___Arthur Graves Canfield