  Fly, Year, not backward down blind gulfs of night, Thick with the swarm of miscreated things: Forth, flying year, through calms and broader light, Clear-eyed, strong-bosom’d year, on strenuous wings; Bearing a song more high-intoned, more holy Than the wild Swan’s melodious melancholy, More rapturous than the atom lark outflings. I follow on slow foot and unsubdued: Have I not heard thy cry across the wind? Not seen thee, Slayer of the serpent brood,— Error, and doubt, and death, and anguish blind? I follow, I shall know thee by thy plumes Flame-tipped, when on that morn of conquered tombs, I praise amidst my years the doom assigned. |
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