WHEN the New Year came, we said,
Half with hope and half with dread:
“Welcome, child, new-born to be
Last of Time’s great family!
All thy brethren, bent and gray,
Aged and worn, have passed away
To the place where dead years go,—
Place which mortals cannot know.
Thou art fairest of them all,
Ivory-limbed and strong and tall,
Gold hair blown back, and deep eyes
Full of happy prophecies;
Rose-bloom on thy youthful cheek.
Welcome, child!” And all the while
The sweet New Year did not speak,
Though we thought we saw him smile.
When the Old Year went, we said,
Looking at his grim gray head,
At the shoulders burden-bowed,
And the sad eyes dark with cloud:
“Was he ever young and fair?
Did we praise his sunny hair
And glad eyes, with promise lit?
We can scarce remember it.
Treacherously he smiled, nor spoke,
Hiding ’neath his rainbow cloak
Store of grievous things to strew
On the way that we must go.
Vain to chide him; old and weak,
He is dying; let him die.”
And the Old Year did not speak,
But we thought we heard him sigh.