Classic Poem

Long foretold by those prophets old,
The sun, the moon, and the stars,
The New Year waits at Time's high gates,
And clashes the golden bars.
And the soul of the world awakens and gropes
In a twilight wonder of fears and hopes,
As a new wave breaks on the beaten shores,
As a new foot falls on the trodden floors,
And a New Year stands with uplifted hands
In the light of the opened doors.

All uncrowned, with his hair unbound,
His white hair loose on the wind,
The Old Year goes to his long repose,
But he casts his gifts behind.
With glimmer of tears and flicker of smile,
He takes his place in the pilgrim file
Of the dim-eyed years who journey along,
Shrilling us back a discordant song,
That mingles and blends with the distance and ends
In a harmony soft and strong.

Long foretold, in the morning cold,
With pain and music and mirth,
The New Year gleams on the broken dreams
Of the fast-revolving earth;
A secret, a change, and a mystery,
What hath not been and what is to be,
Nourished and cherished and hidden away,
Saved by Time for this ripening day,
To work a deed forever decreed
And a mission it must obey.

All unknown, it is thou alone
Who canst tell thine errand aright, —
A whispered thought when the world was not,
And a sign made in the night.
Far from the touch of our vain surmise,
In thy folded hours thy meaning lies,
To some for blessing, to some for curse;
Yet none would thy destined dawn disperse,
For it works in the plan that is more than man,
And is well for the universe.