Classic Poem

Good-bye, old year, good-bye! now would I learn
The new one's name, but yours jumps to my pen,
As, like a parting friend, you turn and turn
To shake my hand again.

What promise made! how little done, old year!
But 'tis God's way, and we are wisely mute
The blossom'd Spring gives hope of endless cheer;
But Winter counts the fruit.

And so, our hopes are blown to outward loss:
Yet, inwardly, the gain, who knows how great!
For, like the blighted hope on Calvary's cross,
They grow, would we but wait.

Good-bye, old year! though now you largely stand,
With all your living memories in store,
Soon will you lie, an unknown grain of sand,
On Time's eternal shore.

And with my farewell I could give a tear,
If man's own end were only death and dross:
But, with eternity around us here,
Lost time can be no loss.

Yet, mourn its waste—for that is waste of soul;
And make each blighted hope a chastening rod:
Then, though the years inexorably roll,
They bring us nearer God.