  The snow has ceased its fluttering flight, The wind sunk to a whisper light, An ominous stillness fills the night, A pause—a hush. At last, a sound that breaks the spell, Loud, clanging mouthings of a bell, That through the silence peal and swell, And roll, and rush. What does this brazen tongue declare, That falling on the midnight air Brings to my heart a sense of care Akin to fright? 'Tis telling that the year is dead, The New Year come, the Old Year fled, Another leaf before me spread On which to write. It tells the deeds that were not done, It tells of races never run, Of victories that were not won, Barriers unleaped. It tells of many a squandered day, Of slighted gems and treasured clay, Of precious stores not laid away, Of fields unreaped. And so the years go swiftly by, Each, coming, brings ambitions high, And each, departing, leaves a sigh Linked to the past. Large resolutions, little deeds; Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds Until the blotted record reads, "Failure!" at last. |
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