The Old Year and the New

Last night at twelve, amid the knee-deep snows, A child of Time accepted his repose,— The eighteen hundred fifty-sixth of grace, With sudden chance, fell forward on his face. Solemn and slow the winter sun had gone, Sailing full early for the port of dawn; Across broad zones of the ethereal sea, With even rate he voyaged far and free, While the cone-shadow of the earth swept round The other half of heaven’s embracing bound— A weird and mystic dial-hand to mark, From orb to orb, along the shuddering arc, Measured to music of the sphery chime, The noiseless process of eternal time. I walked in doubt and dread—as if the weight Of all the impending heaven upon me sate: The crisp snow creaked, my breath pushed stiffly out, And keen frost-sparkles merrily glanced about; The clear cold stars reached down a frory ray, Like a fine icicle accrete of spray, That pricked my blood with many a light attack Of Lilliput lances in my front and back, For every several nerve alive to feel The eager season had some shrewd appeal. And so the fields I gained, and there I found The fresh dry snow laid by that querulous sound, And all grew still as death. Within my breast Hushing the noisy heart-beat, on I pressed. The punctual shadow to the summit drew; Twelve strokes of lighter silence fell like dew, Audible to the spirit, and behold, The vision of the Dead Year was unrolled. Full length he leaned aslant the slumbering snow, Which clad all things in Chinese weeds of woe, Easing his fall—that not a breath might mar The listening awe that yearned from snow to star. But over him a spirit fair doth smile, As fain all grief with gladness to beguile; A torch he bears to light the world anew— O blithe Young Year, but keep thy promise true!