MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 27 Through woods and mountain-passes The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn masses, And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands, in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king, — a king! Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! His joy! his last! O, the old man gray, Loveth her ever-soft voice, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, And the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies, No stain from its breath is spread No mist nor stain ! MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 29 Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, Vex not his ghost! Then comes, with an awful roar, The storm-wind from Labrador, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away ! |