V

Another day of toil and strife,

Another page so white,

Within that fateful Log of Life

That I and all must write;

Another page without a stain

To make of as I may,

That done, I shall not see again

Until the Judgment Day.

Ah, could I, could I backward turn

The pages of that Book,

How often would I blench and burn!

How often loathe to look!

What pages would be meanly scrolled;

What smeared as if with mud;

A few, maybe, might gleam like gold,

Some scarlet seem as blood.

O Record grave, God guide my hand

And make me worthy be,

Since what I write to-day shall stand

To all eternity;

Aye, teach me, Lord of Life, I pray,

As I salute the sun,

To bear myself that every day

May be a Golden One.