Classic Poem

Only another hour. The night creeps by
The same as other nights. No dying moans
Disturb the darkness; only mournfully
The winter rain drips slowly o'er the stones.

The whole house sleeps, I only watch and wait,
Through the last hour of the hoary year,
To con the last line of this leaf of fate, —
This record, blotched and blurred by many a tear.

The leaf shall turn at midnight; nevermore
Shall human deed or passion mark its face.
And none may change it, though repenting sore,
We write at will — ah, would we might erase!

Come, good resolves. This hour is left to make
Strong promises to cast out every sin,
And solemn vows great things to undertake; —
But there's the year ahead to break them in.

We all are weak; yet, counting on our strength,
We lay our plans like Titans, — we, so small!
We seek to execute, and find at length,
We do but pigmles' work — or none at all.

Well, be it so. Better to strive in vain
Than to sit idle; better that we fall
In hidden pitfalls, time and time again,
Than cling like cowards to some sheltering wall.

The years grow shorter; youth slips fast away;
I see upon my brow the prints of care;
My step is growing sober, and to-day
I plucked some threads of silver from my hair.

We all are growing old — like time. 'Tis well
If we gain wisdom as our locks turn gray.
No room for pride; only a slab shall tell —
And that shall crumble — of our little day.

The o'clock strike. So the old year dies,
And so the new is born. I list in vain
For sound or speech — for groans or natal cries;
I hear only the dripping of the rain.