Until We Are All Free, We Are

Thick February Mists Cling Heavily To The Dead Earth And To Each Leafless Tree, And Closer Down Upon The Hilltops Draw, Dull Forecasts There Of Bright, Sure-coming Spring; Yet The Heart Gathers Hope And Strange Delight From This Dear, Unlovely, Wished-for Sight Of Leaden-misted Twilights Lengthening.

Life's Sharpest Rapture Is Surcease Of Pain.

Naught Is Too Small And Soft To Turn And Sting.

Kindle The Taper Like The Steadfast Star Ablaze On Evening's Forehead O'er The Earth, And Add Each Night A Lustre Till Afar An Eightfold Splendor Shine Above Thy Hearth.

Thou Two-faced Year, Mother Of Change And Fate...