Eight o’clock
You leave the recollection of Hunsden as a bee would a rock , as a bird a desert ; and your aspirations spread eager wings towards a land of visions where , now in advancing daylight -- in X -- daylight -- you dare to dream of congeniality , repose , union . Those three you will never meet in this world ; they are angels . The souls of just men made perfect may encounter them in heaven , but your soul will never be made perfect . Eight o'clock strikes ! your hands are thawed , get to work ! '' `` Work ? why should I work ? ''