  W WHEN the New Year came, we said, Half with hope and half with dread: “Welcome, child, new-born to be Last of Time’s great family! All thy brethren, bent and gray, Aged and worn, have passed away To the place where dead years go,— Place which mortals cannot know. Thou art fairest of them all, Ivory-limbed and strong and tall, Gold hair blown back, and deep eyes Full of happy prophecies; Rose-bloom on thy youthful cheek. Welcome, child!” And all the while The sweet New Year did not speak, Though we thought we saw him smile. When the Old Year went, we said, Looking at his grim gray head, At the shoulders burden-bowed, “Was he ever young and fair? Did we praise his sunny hair And glad eyes, with promise lit? We can scarce remember it. Treacherously he smiled, nor spoke, Hiding ’neath his rainbow cloak Store of grievous things to strew On the way that we must go. Vain to chide him; old and weak, He is dying; let him die.” And the Old Year did not speak, But we thought we heard him sigh. |
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