I know not where I am: Beneath my feet a whirling sphere, And overhead (and yet below) A crystal rampart cutting sheer-- The traveling sun its oriflam. What do I know? I know not what I do: I wrought at that, I wrought at this, The shuttle still perforce I throw; But if aright or if amiss The web reveals not, held to view. What do I know? I know not what I think: My thoughts?--As in a shaft of light The dust-motes wander to and fro, And shimmer in their flight; Then, either way, in darkness sink. What do I know? I know not who am I: If now I enter on the Scheme, Or revenant from long ago; If but some World-Soul's moment-dream, Or, timeless, in Itself I lie. What do I know? Here is a sweet touch from the Kansas City _Star_. The very name of the writer of it is so in keeping with tender dutifulness and so suggestive of clean-swept hearths and ministries to tiny, clinging hands, that one wonders if it be not a pseudonym. A miniature "psalm of daily duty" is it: At morn I yearned a song to sing That would inspire and teach In words so true all men would hear In them their own soul's speech. But Duty stopped my pen and showed The day's dull round of care-- The service to another's need-- A burden I should share. At night the Day sung to the past Her record clear and strong, And richer, sweeter than I dreamed I heard complete my song. --_Emily Householder_ And from the same paper another ringing note on the sacredness of the day's duty--but this is no psalm, rather a trumpet call, gorgeous, full, and technically so splendid that it suggests the ancients: TODAY Voice, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts of old fashion, English scorners of Spain sweeping the blue sea-way, Sing me the daring of life for life, the magnanimous passion Of man for man in the mean populous streets of Today. Hand, with what color and power thou couldst show, in the ring hot-sanded, Brown Bestiarius holding the lean, tawn tiger at bay, Paint me the wrestle of Toil with the wild-beast Want, bare-handed; Shadow me forth a soul steadily facing Today.--_Helen Gray Cone_ Will you have music? Then read these, so different in content, so unlike in the touch, for one is threaded through with compassion and tenderness while the other is just a little note of joy in life, which might rise out of self as well as unself in certain not yet conscious natures. CANDLEMAS O hearken, all ye little weeds That lie beneath the snow, (So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) The sun hath risen for royal deeds, A valiant wind the vanguard leads; Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds Before ye rise and blow.