Seven years agone there was a drought,—and the seventh ring is narrowed;
The fifth from hence was half a deluge,—the fifth is cellular and broad.
Thus, Man, thou art a result, the growth of many yesterdays,
That stamp thy secret soul with marks of weal or woe:
Thou art an almanack of self, the living record of thy deeds;
Spirit hath its scars as well as body, sore and aching in their season:
Here is a knot,—it was a crime; there is a canker,—selfishness;
Lo, here, the heart-wood rotten; lo, there, perchance, the sap-wood sound.
Nature teacheth not in vain; thy works are in thee, of thee;
Some present evil bent hath grown of older errors: