From the shelf
Nothing in the canon is tethered to February 29. One line is set aside for this year, the same line for every reader.
February 29 stays in the book in common years. The lived calendar skips it. This page does not.
I do not pretend to understand the moral universe. The arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways. I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by the experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see I am sure it bends towards justice.
In 1987 this day opens on John Keats.
Arrow keys turn the day. S keeps the line. Slash focuses search.