(Written the last of 1922, a dark day with continuous
rain, and published in the Atlanta Constitution,
January 1st, a day of sunshine and life.)
“My time is up,” bemoaned the dying year,
And Nature wept and freely spread her gloom;
“My record past, and I must now make room
For buoyant youth, another still more dear.
Some comfort mine that weep my friends sincere,
Thus easier I may pass into my tomb;
But joyful more to speak a nobler boon
For those who hope and trust and persevere.”
And all shall heed the inevitable call,
From fragrant rose to chieftain strong shall fall;
The greater they the more widespread the grief
Of living men, the people great and small,
But list, ye weeping ones—O sweet relief—
It’s Heaven’s plan, through death to Life for all!
[Illustration]