Written by
Robert William Service |
My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire I sit,
And wait to feel the old year go.
I dedicate to solemn thought
Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
With much of blame, with little praise.
Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
You stand to bow your last adieu;
A moment, and the prompter's chime
Will ring the curtain down on you.
Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
You falter as a Sage in pain;
Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
And face your audience again.
That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
Let us all read, whate'er the cost:
O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
Is it for dear one you have lost?
Is it for fond illusion gone?
For trusted lover proved untrue?
O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
What hath the Old Year meant to you?
And you, O neighbour on my right
So sleek, so prosperously clad!
What see you in that aged wight
That makes your smile so gay and glad?
What opportunity unmissed?
What golden gain, what pride of place?
What splendid hope? O Optimist!
What read you in that withered face?
And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of a tragic doom?
What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
What see you in the dying year?
And so from face to face I flit,
The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are with approbation lit,
And some are shadowed with despair.
Some show a smile and some a frown;
Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!
Old weary year! it's time to go.
My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
My fire is almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that's true,
For we've been comrades, you and I --
I thank God for each day of you;
There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!
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Written by
George Herbert |
1 I saw Eternity the other night,
2 Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
3 All calm, as it was bright;
4 And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years,
5 Driv'n by the spheres
6 Like a vast shadow mov'd; in which the world
7 And all her train were hurl'd.
8 The doting lover in his quaintest strain
9 Did there complain;
10 Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,
11 Wit's sour delights,
12 With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure,
13 Yet his dear treasure
14 All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour
15 Upon a flow'r.
16 The darksome statesman hung with weights and woe,
17 Like a thick midnight-fog mov'd there so slow,
18 He did not stay, nor go;
19 Condemning thoughts (like sad eclipses) scowl
20 Upon his soul,
21 And clouds of crying witnesses without
22 Pursued him with one shout.
23 Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found,
24 Work'd under ground,
25 Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see
26 That policy;
27 Churches and altars fed him; perjuries
28 Were gnats and flies;
29 It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he
30 Drank them as free.
31 The fearful miser on a heap of rust
32 Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust
33 His own hands with the dust,
34 Yet would not place one piece above, but lives
35 In fear of thieves;
36 Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
37 And hugg'd each one his pelf;
38 The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense,
39 And scorn'd pretence,
40 While others, slipp'd into a wide excess,
41 Said little less;
42 The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave,
43 Who think them brave;
44 And poor despised Truth sate counting by
45 Their victory.
46 Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
47 And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring;
48 But most would use no wing.
49 O fools (said I) thus to prefer dark night
50 Before true light,
51 To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
52 Because it shews the way,
53 The way, which from this dead and dark abode
54 Leads up to God,
55 A way where you might tread the sun, and be
56 More bright than he.
57 But as I did their madness so discuss
58 One whisper'd thus,
59 "This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide,
60 But for his bride."
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Written by
Michael Drayton |
Sitting alone, Love bids me go and write;
Reason plucks back, commanding me to stay,
Boasting that she doth still direct the way,
Or else Love were unable to endite.
Love, growing angry, vexed at the spleen
And scorning Reason's maimed argument,
Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to invent,
Where she with Love conversing hath not been.
Reason, reproached with this coy disdain,
Despiteth Love, and laugheth at her folly;
And Love, condemning Reason's reason wholly,
Thought it in weight too light by many'a grain.
Reason, put back, doth out of sight remove,
And Love alone picks reason out of love.
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