TO MARCUS And you who doubt the sky And fear the sun— You—Christian with the pack— You shall not wander back For I am Hopeful—I Will cheer you on. Come—where the great have trod. The great shall lead— Come, elbow through the press, Pluck Fortune by the dress—By God, we must—by God, We shall succeed. TO OTTILIE You remember, I suppose, How the August sun arose, And how his face Woke to trill and carolette All the cages that were set About the place. In the tender morning light All around lay strange and bright And still and sweet, And the gray doves unafraid Went their morning promenade Along the street.