Classic Poem

This New Year's nightfall, clinching grasp of cold
Began to blur my warm room's window panes,
Iced over soon with traceries formed like fronds.
Hard weather, sexton's ally for the old,
Nevertheless jogs memory that regains
The glow and glee of boyhood skating ponds.

Indulgent of that obvious thought, I've tried
Conclusions with another, also trite,
Yet welcome, in an age of values lost.
Traditions perish; topsy-turvyfied,
Our once well-wonted usages take flight;
But not so when we get a spell of frost

Weather's the same for all. Though Science tells
The world to-day what Newton never guessed,
He woke to sunshine sparkling on crisp snow;
Heard, clear across white pastures, midnight bells,
And thought, as I do now, with quiet zest,
Of New Year's Eve a century ago.