Not for its sunsets burning clear and low,
Its purple splendors on the eastern hills,
Bless I the Year that now makes haste to go
While sad Earth listens for its dying thrills.
Not that its days were sweet with sun and showers;
Its summer nights all luminous with stars:
Not that its vales were studded thick with flowers;
Not that its mountains pierced the azure bars;
Not that from our dear land, by slow degrees,
Some mists of error it hath blown away;
Not for its noble deeds—ah! not for these—
Fain would I twine this wreath of song to-day.
But for one gift that it has brought to me
My grateful heart would crown the dying Year:
Because, O best-beloved, it gave me thee,
I drop this garland on the passing bier!