Classic Poem

FROST-HARD the echoing ground,
The midnight winds moan on the pathless moor,
Deep searching voices seem to travel round:
A stranger at my door.

He knocks and knocks again;
I leave my smouldering fire with cautious tread,
And inside, an Old Man, as if in pain,
Stands with uncover'd head.

He looks with such a look;
To his white beard the icicles have clung,
And passages, as read from some bard-book,
Roll solemn from his tongue.

Chasten'd, I turn about;
Then, looking up to Heaven, confess my sin;
Lift the door-latch, and the Old Year goes out,
And the New Year comes in.

Good bye, Old Year, good bye:
Welcome, New Comer, stranger though thou be.
Whatever else be mine, O may I sigh,
Saviour, for more of Thee!