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THE PARTING OF THE OLD YEAR—
But the sweet Day, gently weepingTill soft mists her eyelids covered,Said, "Oh, no, I cannot whisperTo the Old Year, sad and sighing,Cannot whisper, 'Thou art dying.'"Quickly then the mists dispersing,Op'ning wide her eyes of beauty,Looked she on the earth so joyous.But the Old Year, though he knew notThat his hours were almost numbered,Gazed upon her face in sadness.And the Day, now gay and merry,Dropped from out her fairy fingersGleaming sunbeams, bright and golden,Till they rested like a haloRound his brow, so pale and wrinkled. When the laughing Day departed,And her golden beams no longerRested 'mong his locks so hoary,Then the Old Year watched her sadly,Till her robes of gold and purple,Trailing down the western heavens,Were obscured by Twilight's shadows.And the Twilight would not whisperTo the Old Year, sad and sighing,Would not whisper, "Thou art dying." So the Midnight, deep and solemn,
