Classic Poem

That which we were forever stands between
Ourselves and that we would be. With frail hands,
Cold upon either's wrist, an Old Year stands
And holds us prisoners for what has been;
And pitiful her eyes that needs must screen
Our restless eyes that turn toward unseen lands
And strange new days, and all the heart's demands
Falter and fail before her wistful mien.
Surely we need but little strength to break
This feeble hold and turn and wander free,
Each one his separate way beyond her door;
Strange that we stand here sullenly for sake
Of that brief joy she gave to you and me,
Ere Love went weeping to return no more.