UPON NEW YEAR'S EVE by ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH

NOW winds of winter glue
Their tears upon the thorn,
And earth has voices few,
And those forlorn.

And 'tis our solemn night
When maidens sand the porch,
And play at @3Jack's Alight@1
With burning torch,

Or cards, or @3Kiss i' the Ring@1—
While ashen fagots blaze,
And late wassailers sing
In miry ways.

Then, dear my wife, be blithe
To bid the New Year hail,
And welcome—plough, drill, scythe,
And jolly flail.

For though the snows he'll shake
Of winter from his head,
To settle, flake by flake,
On ours instead;

Yet we be wreathèd green
Beyond his blight or chill,
Who kissed at seventeen,
And worship still.

We know not what he'll bring:
But this we know to-night—
He doth prepare the Spring
For our delight.

With birds he'll comfort us,
With blossoms, balms, and bees,
With brooks, and odorous
Wild breath o' the breeze.

Come then, O festal prime!
With sweets thy bosom fill,
And dance it, dripping thyme,
On Lantick hill.

West wind, awake! and comb
Our garden, blade from blade—
We, in our little home,
Sit unafraid.

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