The Will To Do, The Soul To

Each Age Has Deemed The New-born Year The Fittest Time For Festal Cheer.

Unless A Tree Has Borne Blossoms In Spring, You Will Vainly Look For Fruit On It In Autumn.

Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.

You Will, I Trust, Resemble A Forest Plant, Which Has Indeed, By Some Accident, Been Brought Up In The Greenhouse, And Thus Rendered Delicate And Effeminate, But Which Regains Its Native Firmness And Tenacity, When Exposed For A Season To The Winter Air.

Earth Walks On Earth, Glittering In Gold; Earth Goes To Earth, Sooner Than It Wold; Earth Builds On Earth, Palaces And Towers; Earth Says To Earth, Soon, All Shall Be Ours.