 | The Poems of Sir William Watson |  |
100
MIDNIGHT
December Thirty-first, 19—
Once vainglorious, now forlorn:
Dead and unlamented Year!
Thou to thy catafalque art borne,
Without the escort of a tear.
Dead and unlamented Year!
Thou to thy catafalque art borne,
Without the escort of a tear.
Thine were hopes that lived unblest,
Dying with the Summer's bloom.
They shall bestrew thy place of rest—
The only flowers upon thy tomb.
Dying with the Summer's bloom.
They shall bestrew thy place of rest—
The only flowers upon thy tomb.
| The Poems of Sir William Watson | |