A NEW YEAR'S EVE IN WAR TIME
I
Phantasmal fears,
And the flap of the flame,
And the throb of the clock,
And a loosened slate,
And the blind night's drone,
Which tiredly the spectral pines intone:
II
And the blood in my ears
Strumming always the same,
And the gable-cock
With its fitful grate,
And myself, alone.
III
The twelfth hour nears
Hand-hid, as in shame;
I undo the lock,
And listen, and wait
For the Young Unknown.
IV
In the dark there careers—
As if Death astride came
To numb all with his knock—
A horse at mad rate
Over rut and stone.
V
No figure appears,
No call of my name,
No sound but “Tic-toc”
Without check. Past the gate
It clatters—is gone.
VI
What rider it bears
There is none to proclaim;
And the Old Year has struck,
And, scarce animate.
The New makes moan.
VII
Maybe that “More Tears!—
More Famine and Flame—
More Severance and Shock!”
Is the order from Fate
That the Rider speeds on
To pale Europe; and tiredly the pines intone.
1915–1916
