THE PASSING OF THE YEAR.
O Gentle Year, I’ll not entreat thee stay,
Since now thy face is set to some far land
Not named of men, untrod, a shadow-strand!
And those most powerful prayers that lips could pray
Would not obtain thy tarrying for a day.
Yet, gliding from us with the sliding sand,
Thou shalt not pass till I have kissed the hand
That gave me joys, and took but time away.