What is To-Morrow until it comes?
This moment the evening air thrills with a purple of which no painter as yet has caught the tint, no poet the meaning; no silent face passes her on the street on which a human voice might not have charm to call out love and power: the Helper yet waits near her.
Here is work, life: the Old Year you despise holds beauty, pain, content yet unmastered: let us leave Margret to master them.
It does not satisfy you?
Child-souls, you tell me, like that of Lois, may find it enough to hold no past and no future, to accept the work of each moment, and think it no wrong to drink every drop of its beauty and joy: we, who are wiser, laugh at them.

It may be: yet I say unto you, their angels only do always behold the face of our Father in the New Year..