Poems (Eckley)/A Walk in the Cascine
WALK on dead and withered leaves— On dead leaves brown and sere,The worn and tattered garments of Another dying year.And as I tread their brittle forms, Can I profane the thoughtThat speaks to me from dying leaves, Of life at best but naught?
A WALK IN THE CASCINE.
(FLORENCE.)To H. B. S.
WALK on dead and withered leaves— On dead leaves brown and sere,The worn and tattered garments of Another dying year.And as I tread their brittle forms, Can I profane the thoughtThat speaks to me from dying leaves, Of life at best but naught?In thought I tread the shadowy Past, Hear the retreating treadDie away in the distance far, Another year that's fled.Too late to catch at her garments, Stirring the wintry air,Wafting pale retrospection of Another vanished year!
The great clock, Time, has struck the hour In Eternity's vast hall,Too late to set the hours back— "Too late!" I hear it call.Not too late to redeem the time, As new-born hours ring,Ready to meet the new year bold, For higher flights to wing;
For fresh resolves, for nobler aims, O may this new year beThe best, the happiest of our lives, Life through Eternity.