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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SITTING by CECIL DAY LEWIS NEW YEAR'S EVE by DAVID IGNATOW CAMOMILE TEA by KATHERINE MANSFIELD RICHARD BOOTH TO HIS SON JUNIUS BRUTUS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LANDSCAPE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SONG FOR THE FIRST OF THE MONTH by DOROTHY PARKER SANDHILL PEOPLE by CARL SANDBURG |