Classic Poem

Time slips from under us. The Year is gone!
And now—what comes! Hark to the headlong bells,
Whose sudden cries shoot through the circling air,
Like lightning through the dark. What birth is next?
The Year,—the new-born Year! Cold, weak and pale,
She enters on her round. No flowers awake,
To herald her: no winds start forth, to pipe
Their Bacchanalian welcomes in her ear:
But Silence and inanimate Nature lie
In watch, awaiting her first look serene;
And, deep within her breast, what marvels sleep;
What deeds of good and ill; what dreams,—desires,
Flowers like the stars, and thoughts beyond the flowers;
Laughing delights, mute woes, passionate tears;
And kindness, human sunshine, softening all!