New Year Thoughts.
As to the dying year I bade farewell,
Within my hands she left a mantle dark,
Whereon mine eyes did mark
Loved names I scarce for blinding tears could read;
But from its folds fresh blushing flow’rets fell
Of that fair spring-tide I had mourned as dead.
And now her youngest sister draweth nigh,
’Neath modest starlight and with noiseless feet,
Whom thousands flock to greet—
Thousands of every age, who fain would know,
As in her face each peereth wistfully,
What fate she bringeth—happiness or woe?
She answereth not, but pointeth silently
To where far off the hidden future lies,
All dark to mortal eyes,
Save where, from out the gloom, faint stars appear.
She will not linger—haste and thou shalt see
From chaos order as thou drawest near.