Swift as wave follows wave on tempest-tossed seas;
Thin shadows swept by in that funeral train,
As glide o’er old battle-grounds ghosts of the slain.
I saw the dim spectres of long-buried years—
The Seasons close followed, in mourning and tears.
Arrayed in his armor, death-darts in his hand,
The grim King of Terrors strode on with the band,
While cold, stark and ghastly, there lay on his bier
The death-stricken form of the hoary Old Year!
How bent was his figure, how furrowed his brow,