Go far from me, ye brood
Of little Hates and Sins who thus intrude,
Hide with the perished leaf below the mould;
The Old Year’s shade is dim--
A touch, no more, upon the round world’s rim--
And all the sky a-glitter in the cold.
Stand closer, Faith and Truth
And the long Patience that outlasts its youth,
The hour is at the change; and, drawing near,
There is a footstep’s sound,
A measured fall upon the iron ground,
And the earth, spell-bound, waits the coming year.
Come from your graves, O Lost!
And stand, this once, beside me in the frost
And turn, once more, your eyes upon my own;
Leave, for the past’s old sake,
Some look, some comrade’s sign for me to take,
That, in the tossings of the time unknown,
I may not be alone.
❦