Thompson, Priscilla Jane
|GLEANINGS OF QUIET HOURS.|
|THE OLD YEAR.|
INFIRM and aged, doth he sit,
And ponder on the gilded past;
His brilliant eyes, alas, death-lit,
Is like a spark, too bright to last,
And muses he on days now sped,
When he, a youth, with staff and thong,
Pursued the waning year, that fled,
And left him monarch brave and strong.
What happy days they seem to be,
Now that they number with the past;
But hark! those distant shouts of glee!
He cuts his musings with a gasp.
With bony hands he grasps his cape,
And wraps it 'bout his trembling form;
Then turns, a humped, decrepit, shape,
And flees the coming of the morn.
And as his wasted form doth drift,
All mist-like, through the frosty air,
Close in the rear, behold a rift;
And through it comes the glad New Year.