What is the old year? 'Tis a book On which we backward fondly look, Not willing, quite, that it should close, For leaves of violet and rose Within its heart are thickly strewn, Marking Love's dawn and golden noon; And turned-down pages, noting days Dimly recalled through Memory's haze; And tear-stained pages, too, that tell Of starless nights and mournful knell Of bells that toll through troubled air The @3De Profundis@1 of despair; The laugh, the tear, the shine, the shade, All 'twixt the covers gently laid, No leaves uncut, no page unscanned -- Close it and lay it in God's hand. |