 | English Roses |  |
THE OLD YEAR.
I take the book and turn the pagesSo mean and squalid to the last,
And shut it in the shadowed Past
Among the dead and buried ages.
I lay it with the relics older
Of each departed time and toy,
Like roseleaves crushed, to mix and moulder.
And there with many a glorious vision
Too often all the world to me,
Will it abide a bliss to see
Or fade in darkness and derision?
It looks a volume sad and awful,
Now as it passes from my hand
Into the sere and silent land,
A thing unlovely and unlawful.
A blank has gulfed the mighty sentence,
And jeweled word and chiseled line
That as the morning seemed to shine
Are dashed with tears of salt repentance.
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And gathered to the misty shelf,
The dust and stains are all myself
And they by me alone convicted.
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