‘Joy’s recollection is no longer joy,
While Sorrow’s memory is sorrow still;’
I counsel to recant your vows, and come
With me to worship at a better shrine,
The shrine of Morning.
Morning is the hour
Of vigorous thought, unconquerable hope,
And high endeavor. All our powers, in sleep
Bathed, nurtured, clad, and strung with nerves of steel,
Rise from their brief oblivion keen with health,