The Close of the Year.
ANOTHER and another! 'Tis the still
And solemn hour of midnight. Not a sound
Of mortal life disturbs the awful calm
That rests upon the dim and sleeping earth.
'Twould seem as if a wizard spell were laid
Upon the winds, the woods, the waves, the streams
For all the thousand voices that are wont,
In this deep hour of darkness and of dreams,
To weave their low, mysterious cadences
In one wild chant of spirit-melody,
Are silent now, and there is naught to tell
The ear that Nature lives. The holy stars,
The watchers of the night, are burning faint,
Like funeral lamps; the dark cloud-shadows rest
And solemn hour of midnight. Not a sound
Of mortal life disturbs the awful calm
That rests upon the dim and sleeping earth.
'Twould seem as if a wizard spell were laid
Upon the winds, the woods, the waves, the streams
For all the thousand voices that are wont,
In this deep hour of darkness and of dreams,
To weave their low, mysterious cadences
In one wild chant of spirit-melody,
Are silent now, and there is naught to tell
The ear that Nature lives. The holy stars,
The watchers of the night, are burning faint,
Like funeral lamps; the dark cloud-shadows rest
