A year without a sorrow
Or a cross,
Or dread of any morrow
Bringing loss. Could it be?
A year of light, with shadow
Scarcely one?
Of fruits in every meadow,
Thistles none. Will it be?
A year of many roses
And few thorns;
A year that brighter closes
Than it dawns. May it be!
A year of God’s unfolding
Wider wings;
A year of man’s beholding
Better things. Must it be!