Close and seal the book of fate,
With whate’er it may relate,
Sin and goodness, love and hate,
Fare thee well, Old Year.
One more volume is complete,
Take it to the Mercy Seat,
Lay it at the Master’s feet,
Fare thee well, Old Year.
REFRAIN.
Fare thee well, Old Year,
Fare thee well, Old Year,
Thou hast been a faithful friend,
Fare thee well, Old Year.
PEGASUS.
If you find Pegasus a steed
Scornful of your control,
Who canters well enough, indeed,
But will not caracole,
So much the better, poet mine,
’Tis bottom wins the race.
Let poetasters prance, in fine;
Keep you the steady pace.
Let poetasters hunt for sound,
Chase metres, out of breath;
Great thoughts are not thus run to ground,
Nor fame in at the death.
So, let your Pegasus be free
To hunt some thought sublime,
While you sit still, with clinging knee,
And gallop simple rhyme.
Ah, friend, of all the joys of earth,
There’s nothing like the hunt,
The good horse straining at the girth,
The clear-tongued hounds in front.
And if your Pegasus can bear
You well before the rout,
Don’t curb and make him beat the air;
Loose rein, and let him out.
Oft when a poet’s rhymes I read,
With ornate language wrought,
Its cadences, though sweet indeed,
But hide the lack of thought.
Be yours the poem that can stand
From trappings wholly free,
Each thought a Phryne, to be scanned
In fearless nudity.