14
poems.
In her small and taper fingers
She a gilded book was holding;
And the pages, spotless, pure,
Its bright covers were enfolding.
She a gilded book was holding;
And the pages, spotless, pure,
Its bright covers were enfolding.
I saw the "Old Year" venture near,
With pale and tearful eye:
"You've just begun to live," she said;
"My time has come to die.
With pale and tearful eye:
"You've just begun to live," she said;
"My time has come to die.
"The book you hold is clean and fresh,
But mine is soiled and worn,
Its pages blotted, its covers old,
The pictures from it torn.
But mine is soiled and worn,
Its pages blotted, its covers old,
The pictures from it torn.
'Although the task was sad for me,
Each daily thought of sin,
I in this book, so soiled and worn,
Have penned it down therein.
Each daily thought of sin,
I in this book, so soiled and worn,
Have penned it down therein.
"But now my work on earth is done,
My heaven-born sister fair;
And unfading seem the roses
In your bright and golden hair.
My heaven-born sister fair;
And unfading seem the roses
In your bright and golden hair.
