THE DYING YEAR
(Written the last of 1922, a dark day with continuous rain, and published in the Atlanta Constitution, January 1st, a day of sunshine and life.)
“My time is up,” bemoaned the dying year,
And Nature wept and freely spread her gloom;
“My record past, and I must now make room
For buoyant youth, another still more dear.
Some comfort mine that weep my friends sincere,
Thus easier I may pass into my tomb;
But joyful more to speak a nobler boon