It cannot really be that long ago, can it?
The New Year
The Young New Year has come so soon
I wonder where the Old Years go?
To some dim land behind the moon
Where starlight glimmers, pale & low.
And everything is grey & cold
And there they sit, these ancient years,
Their eyes so kind, & dim & old,
Their faces lined with vanished cares.
Their voices rattle, dry like bones,
The while they talk of what has been,
And murmur in their hollow tones
Of all the triumphs they have seen.
While the Young Year, with earnest eyes,
Comes buoyant on, to run his race,
Nor dreams how fast his life-span flies
Nor how his end draws on apace.
Anon
