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XLV.

The morning of the last day of the year
Instructs me that my course is nearly run.
I thank Thee that I see another sun,
Father of Seasons! that I still am here
To do thy will; and that the dawn is near
Of a New Life for me. What have I won
In worthy strife? What good work unbegun
Awaits me? Father, I must soon appear
Before Thee, to be sentenced. If I strove
In kindness, I am safe. What is our own?
That only which we build for Thee and thine.
Who shall reap love, unless he sow in love?
If I have labour'd for myself alone,
I need no lock'd strong coffer: Nought is mine!