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47
THE LAST CHRISTMAS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
The thin sands of the dwindling glass
Run swiftly. Ah! my soul, alas!
A single grain thou may'st not stay,
Nor one poor step retrace the way
Of unconsidered hours. For gain
Or loss the account stands fixed. In vain
Well bitter tears for things undone,
Or victories thou might'st have won,
Or falls that flung thee in the dust,
Or visions from thy pathway thrust
By meaner aims.
Run swiftly. Ah! my soul, alas!
A single grain thou may'st not stay,
Nor one poor step retrace the way
Of unconsidered hours. For gain
Or loss the account stands fixed. In vain
Well bitter tears for things undone,
Or victories thou might'st have won,
Or falls that flung thee in the dust,
Or visions from thy pathway thrust
By meaner aims.
What might have been!
And lo! what is, now all is seen!
A withered branch for fruit and flower,
And lo! what is, now all is seen!
A heap of barren sand for dower
Of fair accomplishment, at best
A wraith of idle fancies, crest
On crest of unsubstantial foam!
What hast thou garnered in thy home?
Nor, piteous one, because the fight
Was stern, nor yet because the night
With storm fell oft upon thee, not
Because with mortal ills thy lot
Was circumstanced, thou hast to lay
Thy quivering face in dust to-day.
To-Day! Ah! listen on the air
Ring other notes than wan despair.
Let the dead bury their dead. But thou,
Though faintly throbs thy pulse, thy brow
48
The world's around thee yet, the sky's
Above thee! Not that thou should'st groan
Prostrate in helpless idle moan
The irrevocable Past breaks in,
Grim ghost of weariness and sin.
Look thou upon it, let it lie
The poor dead thing it is. “But I,”
Soul to thine inmost being say,
“Press onward where the new world's Day
“Holds work in store without complaint,
“And waits for sinner as for saint!”
1899.
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