THE DYING YEAR.
Scant leaves upon the aspen
Shake golden in the sun;
Old Year, thy sins are many,
Thy sand is almost run.
The beech-tree, brazen-orange,
Burns like a sunset down;
Old Year, thy grave is ready;
Doff sceptre, robe, and crown.
The elm, a yellow mountain,
Is shedding leaf by leaf;
The rains, in gusts of passion.
Pour forth their quenchless grief;
The winds, like banshees mourning.
Wail in the struggling wood;
Old Year, put off thy splendor.
And don thy funeral hood.
Lay down thy golden glories;
The bare boughs bar the sky—
Skeletons wild and warning.
Quaking to see thee die.
Thou hast lived thy life, remember;
Now lay thee down and rest;
The grass shall grow above thy head,
And the flower above thy breast.