Classic Poem

Thy feet are light upon the morning hills,
O glad young year!
What dost thou bring to man, or bliss, or ban,
Or joy, or hope, or fear,
O glad young year?

A gay voice floated from the untroubled sky
Like a child's laugh, — " Mortal, I know not, I! "

Thy face is hidden, though thy steps are light,
O blithe young year!
Lift thou the veil! Art thou not passing fair,
As fair as thou art dear —
O blithe young year?

A voice replied from out the unfathomed sky —
" I show my face to no man, no, not I! "
In a twelve-month thou wilt be old and wan,
Thou short-lived year!
Thou wilt have gone where centuries lie dead.
Ere then, what cheer? What cheer?
Speak thou, O year!

A deep voice echoed from the far-off sky —
" Ask me not thou! Mortal, God knows — not I! "