Of the days that have vanished, the first and the last,
Of the year, the old year that has met with its doom,
And is vanished for ever in time’s yawning tomb!
The snow of December is spread as a pall
Of white-crested trophies to mourn for its fall,
And the flow of the river is hushed in its bed,
Silent and still as the year that has fled.
Bright were the blossoms that welcomed its birth,
Springing afresh from the bosom of earth,
Smiling in valley, on mountain, and glade,