 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
118
THE DYING YEAR.
The dying year! How are those few words fraught
With images of fading loveliness!
How do they fill with dreams of saddened thought
The heart that sighs o'er all that once could bless!
They fall with mournful sound upon the ear,
The knell of something we have long held dear.
With images of fading loveliness!
How do they fill with dreams of saddened thought
The heart that sighs o'er all that once could bless!
They fall with mournful sound upon the ear,
The knell of something we have long held dear.
Thou frail and dying year! ah! where are now
The charms that have in turn been all thine own?
The spring's young bloom, the summer's ripened glow,
The autumn's mournful splendor, all are gone,
And thou art sinking in oblivion's wave:
Would that the griefs thou gavest might there, too, find a grave!
The charms that have in turn been all thine own?
The spring's young bloom, the summer's ripened glow,
The autumn's mournful splendor, all are gone,
And thou art sinking in oblivion's wave:
Would that the griefs thou gavest might there, too, find a grave!
Aye, years may pass; but yet time's rapid flight
Would be unheeded, were it not be flings
A cloud o'er all youth's hopes and fancies bright:
Alas! he bears upon his shadowy wings
Darkness, distrust, and sorrow; while the mind
Pines 'mid the gloom to which it is consigned.
Would be unheeded, were it not be flings
A cloud o'er all youth's hopes and fancies bright:
Alas! he bears upon his shadowy wings
Darkness, distrust, and sorrow; while the mind
Pines 'mid the gloom to which it is consigned.
Thou dying year! hast thou not swept away
Joys dearer far than any thou hast left?
Have we not seen our hopes with thee decay—
Felt ourselves almost desolate and reft
Of all the fairest, brightest things of earth?
Have we not turned away sick of the world's vain mirth?
Joys dearer far than any thou hast left?
Have we not seen our hopes with thee decay—
Felt ourselves almost desolate and reft
Of all the fairest, brightest things of earth?
Have we not turned away sick of the world's vain mirth?
119
Have we not prayed that thou wouldst quickly fleet,
When we were sunk in sorrow's deepest gloom?
Have we not learned each coming day to greet,
Because it brought us nearer to the tomb?
And thou hast fleeted, and with thee has past
The strong, deep misery that could not last.
When we were sunk in sorrow's deepest gloom?
Have we not learned each coming day to greet,
Because it brought us nearer to the tomb?
And thou hast fleeted, and with thee has past
The strong, deep misery that could not last.
Sorrow treads heavily, and leaves behind
A deep impression e'en when she departs;
While joy trips by with steps light as the wind,
And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts
Of her faint footfalls: only this is sure,—
In this world nought save suffering can endure.
A deep impression e'en when she departs;
While joy trips by with steps light as the wind,
And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts
Of her faint footfalls: only this is sure,—
In this world nought save suffering can endure.
Yet thou art a kind monitor; and we
In thee may trace the progress of our lives:
My spring-time is yet new; I ne'er may see
The summer; and the fruits that autumn gives
For me may never ripen—o'er my brow
Ere then the grass may rustle. Be it so!
In thee may trace the progress of our lives:
My spring-time is yet new; I ne'er may see
The summer; and the fruits that autumn gives
For me may never ripen—o'er my brow
Ere then the grass may rustle. Be it so!
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |