Classic Poem

The last night of the year, I sat alone
Beside the dying fire. The whole house slept,
Naught stirred the silence, save the wind's low moan,
As sadly through the naked streets it crept,
The fall of embers and the clock's low beat,
That mark the passing years with tiring feet.

I am weary; and the coming year
Seemed but an added load that pressed me sore.
The morrow would bring friends, and I should hear
The tread of many feet upon the floor.
I longed for quiet; I was vexed with care;
Just then my burden seemed too great to bear.

I thought of my unopened book, my pen.
Lying long idle, rusting in its place.
Could I but take them to some lonely glen
Where toil were not, nor any human face!
" 'Twere joy, " cried I, so fretful was my mood
" To dwell one year in utter solitude. "

" Have then thy wish! " Was uttered sad and low:
I turned, and one stood by me, fair and tall,
And from his countenance with light aglow,
A look of pitying grief on me did fall.
" Have then thy wish! " He stooped and touched mine eves'
And I stood dumb, overwhelmed with strange surprise.

The silent room had vanished and the wood,
Peopled with birds, that filled its aisles with song
Compassed me round with sweet green solitude;
A clear stream trailed its silvery thread along;
And close beside it stood a rustic cot.
Piled high with volumes, and here toil was not.

Fruits for my food fell lightly at my feet;
I was alone; through all that lovely place
I knew that I might wander, and not meet,
In hill or hollow, any human face.
Within my books, all wit and wisdom blent,
I had my wish; was I therewith content?

Nay, verily. A sharp grief pierced me through,
My spirit sank, oppressed with midnight gloom,
While trees hung o'er me wet with heaven's dew.
I felt as one walled up within a tomb.
I sought my books: locked were their stores from me;
The hot tears dimmed my sight, I could not see.

I tried my pen — in vain. No words would come.
Thought was an arid desert, wide and gray,
From which no streams would flow. My soul was dumb
With utter loneliness; but could I pray?
I cast me on the fragrant, dewy sod,
My face pressed in the grass — and cried to God.

" Oh! Give me back, " I prayed, " The dear days gone —
The toilsome days, so full of crowded care —
The hands I clasped, the lips that pressed my own.
For these, for these, could I all burdens bear! "
I started, for a rustling robe trailed near;
And " Have again thy wish! " fell on my ear.

Again I felt soft, gentle fingers press
Mine eyelids down: and lo! The dear old room,
The smiling lamp light home's blessed homliness!
The lonely wood was gone, its grief, its gloom;
And close within my call my dear ones slept.
For very joy I bowed my head and wept.

The fire was dead, the moon shone on the snow,
The wailing wintry wind blew bitter cold,
And yet I laid me down with heart aglow,
For all life's leaden care seemed turned to gold.
I slept the sleep of peace; I rose at morn,
Strong in the glad New Year — as one new born.