New Year's Eve

There is no change upon the air,
    No record in the sky;
No pall-like storm comes forth to shrowd
    The year about to die.

A few light clouds are on the heaven,
    A few far stars are bright;
And the pale moon shines as she shines
    On many a common night.

Ah, not in heaven, but upon earth,
    Are signs of change exprest;
The closing year has left its mark
    On human brow and breast.

How much goes with it to the grave
    Of life's most precious things!
Methinks each year dies on a pyre,
    Like the Assyrian kings.

Affections, friendships, confidence,—
    There's not a year hath died
But all these treasures of the heart
    Lie with it side by side.

The wheels of time work heavily;
    We marvel day by day
To see how from the chain of life
    The gilding wears away.

Sad the mere change of fortune's chance,
    And sad the friend unkind;
But what has sadness like the change
    That in ourselves we find?

I've wept my castle in the dust,
    Wept o'er an alter'd brow;
'Tis far worse murmuring o'er those tears,
    "Would I could weep them now!"

Oh, for mine early confidence,
    Which like that graceful tree
Bent cordial, as if each approach
    Could but in kindness be!

Then was the time the fairy Hope
    My future fortune told,
Or Youth, the alchemist, that turn'd
    Whate'er he touch'd to gold.

But Hope's sweet words can never be
    What they have been of yore:
I am grown wiser, and believe
    In fairy tales no more.

And Youth has spent his wealth, and bought
    The knowledge he would fain
Change for forgetfulness, and live
    His dreaming life again.

I'm weary, weary: day-dreams, years,
    I've seen alike depart,
And sullen Care and Discontent
    Hang brooding o'er my heart.

Another year, another year,—
    Alas! and must it be
That Time's most dark and weary wheel
    Must turn again for me?

In vain I seek from out the past
    Some cherish'd wreck to save;
Affection, feeling, hope, are dead,—
    My heart is its own grave!