 | English Roses |  |
THE NEW YEAR.
Cometh up like a flower the New Year,
Goeth out like a ripe sheaf the Old—
Like a sheaf with the blighted and true ear,
And its medley of mildew and gold.
The young fashion is feeble and slender,
Though its roots are all planted in Love
And lay hold of Eternity's splendour,
But the heavens are curtained above.
Cometh up like a flower in shadow and shower
To the burdens of care and of crime,
For the sorrow and sinning and terrible winning,
A new rose in the gardens of Time.
Goeth out like a ripe sheaf the Old—
Like a sheaf with the blighted and true ear,
And its medley of mildew and gold.
The young fashion is feeble and slender,
Though its roots are all planted in Love
And lay hold of Eternity's splendour,
But the heavens are curtained above.
Cometh up like a flower in shadow and shower
To the burdens of care and of crime,
For the sorrow and sinning and terrible winning,
A new rose in the gardens of Time.
Cut it down in its bud, saith the Reaper,
Ere it rise to full stature and strength
And the charms that we prize have grown cheaper,
Or the worm of decay saps at length!
Cut it down before evil's intrusion,
Lest its crown be of dust and confusion.
Ere it rise to full stature and strength
And the charms that we prize have grown cheaper,
Or the worm of decay saps at length!
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Lest its crown be of dust and confusion.
Cometh up like a flower the New Year,
Goeth out like a dead sheaf the Old
Carried off when it climbed to the true ear,
With the life that returned to the mould.
O the grace that is modest and little
Yet is drawn from the worlds beyond sleep,
And the petals though pallid and brittle
Do arise from the infinite Deep.
Cometh up like a flower in promise of power
And dim shoots that upturn to the light,
With the thorn and the thistle and brier and bristle
A new rose from the gardens of night.
Goeth out like a dead sheaf the Old
Carried off when it climbed to the true ear,
With the life that returned to the mould.
O the grace that is modest and little
Yet is drawn from the worlds beyond sleep,
And the petals though pallid and brittle
Do arise from the infinite Deep.
Cometh up like a flower in promise of power
And dim shoots that upturn to the light,
With the thorn and the thistle and brier and bristle
A new rose from the gardens of night.
Let it live awhile yet, saith the Reaper,
While I water with tears the young faith
Which despises the charms that are cheaper
And each gawd with its glittering wraith!
Let it live in its pitiful weakness,
Till it gives me the harvest of meekness.
While I water with tears the young faith
Which despises the charms that are cheaper
And each gawd with its glittering wraith!
Let it live in its pitiful weakness,
Till it gives me the harvest of meekness.
| English Roses | |