Thompson, Clara Ann
|THE DYING YEAR.|
The snow is weaving a soft, white, shroud,
For the dying year, today;
The wind is chanting a solemn dirge,
The sky is dull and gray.
All earth is mourning for the year,
And, with an echo of pain,
Our hearts beat time to the sad wind's song,
As the Old Year ends his regin.
Ah, dying year! thy reign was brief,
A fitful, fleeting, breath;
Erewhile, rejoiced we at thy birth,
And now, we mourn thy death.
And yet, dear, dying, fleeting, year,
Why should we mourn for thee?
All earth will follow thee, erelong,