Some years go by so comfortably calm,
So like their fellows, that they all seem one;
Each answering each, as verses in a psalm,
We miss them not—until the psalm is done:

Until, above the mild responsive strain,
An alter’d note, a louder passage rolls,
Whose diapason of delight or pain
Ends once for all the sameness of our souls:

Until some year, with passionate bold hand,
Breaks up at length our languid liberty,
And changes for us, in one brief command,
Both all that was, and all that was to be.

Thenceforth, the New Year never comes unheard;
No noise of mirth, no lulling winter’s snow
Can hush the footsteps which are bringing word
Of things that make us other than we know.

Thenceforth, we differ from our former selves;
We have an insight new, a sharper sense
Of being; how unlike those thoughtless elves
Who wait no end, and watch no providence!

We watch, we wait, with not a star in view:
Content, if haply whilst we dwell alone
The memory of something live and true
Can keep our hearts from freezing into stone.