Poems (Ford)/The Old Year

THE OLD YEAR.

With noiseless step he is gliding down
To the vaults of the silent past,
'Mid the dust and mildew that Time has strewn
O'er his kindred, to sleep at last.

Though his eye is bright, and few silvery hairs
Yet gleam on his drooping head,
If we have not wasted his priceless gifts,
Need we weep o'er his dying bed?

Shall we weakly mourn over vanished days,
Like a child o'er a broken toy,
And with folded hands let the Present pass
On its pinions of lightning by?

'Mid winter's snows we may search in vain
For the summer's sun-kissed flowers;
The Past and Future but phantoms are,
The Present alone is ours.

Though in life's battle to-day we stand
With strong hearts, firm and brave,
The blue-eyed violets may next year shed
Their dew-tears o'er our graves.

Then let us toil while day's white robe
Is tinged by a glowing sun,
That, when life's evening shadows fall,
We can say our work is done;—

That shadowy spectres of wasted years
In memory ne'er may rise
To clog the soul's earth-weary wings,
As it struggling homeward flies.

While the old year closes his weary eye,
And sinks on his cloud-draped bier,
As we hear his knell on the midnight bell,
We'll welcome the bright new year.