The Poetical Works of Ernest Christopher Dowson :: :: University of Virginia Library

We stand at the end of the old year,
On the threshold of the new,
And we turn to the old year dying,
And shrink from the strange and new;
Ah, all fair children, welcome
The strong, young year that is born,
For us, who are no more children,
Who have little to do with morn,
We will sit, old year, in the firelight,
And see the last of you.

There you lie, with your sick, scarred visage,
Who were once so fair to see,
And the death-dew clings to your forehead,
And your breath draws painfully:—
In accents low you tell us,
How there is one end to all,
How love endures for a season,
How mirth departs in the fall—
As the day is, so the tomorrow,
As it has been, it shall be.

153

Where are they, the loves and passions
Of the old, sad year that dies?
They are dead, they are gone, forgotten
More swift than the summer skies;—
The tears, the song, the laughter,—
Ah say, were they worth regret?
Old year, is it kind or cruel,
That we wander and forget
The good and the ill we gather
From every year that dies?

Nay we wish thee well, we forgive thee,
And ywis that this is true,—
There are fairer days in the old years
Than ever dawn in the new!
What if we find fresh faces
In the young new year that dawns,
A guerdon of joy or sorrow,
A crown of laurel or thorns,—
There are sweeter things in the old years
Than ever come with the new.