It remains for you to make of me what you will; if you write with firm steady strokes, my pages will be a joy to look upon when the New Year comes. If the pen falters, if uncertainty or doubt should mar the page, it will become a day to remember with pain.
I am the New Year. Each hour of the three hundred and sixty-five days, I will give you sixty minutes that have never known the use of man. White and pure, I present them; it remains for you to fill them with sixty jeweled seconds of love, hope, endeavor, patience, and trust in God.
I am the New Year. I am here—but once past, I can be recalled. Make me your best.