Thou midnight wind, let not a whisper wave
The stillness all around, until we lay
The worn Old Year within the hapless clay,
And spread with tears the turf upon his grave.
Then this space, where worn and sear'd, like him,
The dead leaves lie upon the sodden earth,
No more to flutter, in their joyous mirth,
Or send sweet music through the twilight dim—
Here will we lay him, while the stars look down
In tearful, silent sorrow, like our own,
And the bare trees give forth their desolate moan,
Wailing with naked arms all shrunk and brown.
But first come thou, New Year, with solemn pace,
And bend and kiss thy father on the brow,
Place the thin hands upon the breast, and now
Let the white head sink to its resting-place.
Lo, far within the night, the bells begin
To stir and peal; but ere the dust is hid,
Cast thou within his grave, O heart, unbid,
All that hath secret wish for strife and sin.
And let it with him fade away and die,
Leaving within a wider space to sow
The seeds of faith, whose large results we know
Are far beyond the limits of the sky.
So stand thou, therefore, heart, from time to time,
Beside the graves of the dead years, and feel
Each sin from out its earthly foothold steal,
Leaving the path to heaven sweet to climb.