Classic Poem

In the lang, lang syne.
When the world was a toy,
Ere the years numbered nine,
I remember one joy;
'Twas to rise in the grey
Of a white winter morn,
When the low sun's red ray
Made the world forlorn,
To see on the pane
The magic Jack Frost
Had wrought once again,
And in silver embossed:
Strange seas of white spray,
That fell not, nor rose,
White trees that ne'er sway
In a wind that ne'er blows;
Silver streams 'mong the hills
Of a far silver moon;
White noonday that chills,
White skies in a swoon.
Ah, since then I have seen
Snowy range upon range
Lift its far head serene.
Vast, kingly, and strange:
White sea-waves that froze
Before they could fall,
Flush of soft sunset rose
On the high snowy wall,
Mountain-clouds in the noon,
Dim, mocking the sight,
And where the white moon
Walked alone on the height:
Yet the Alps never moved
Nor made my heart fain,
As the grey dawns I loved,
And the frost on the pane!


But that was lang syne,
When the world was a toy,
Ere the years numbered nine,
And to live was a joy!