Volume 4 — THE DYING YEAR.
Reading edition
Scant leaves upon the aspen Shake golden in the sun; Old Year, thy sins are many, Thy sand is almost run. The beech-tree, brazen-orange, Burns like a sunset down; Old Year, thy grave is ready; Doff sceptre, robe, and crown. The elm, a yellow mountain, Is shedding leaf by leaf; The rains, in gusts of passion. Pour forth their quenchless grief; The winds, like banshees mourning. Wail in the struggling wood; Old Year, put off thy splendor. And don thy funeral hood. Lay down thy golden glories; The bare boughs bar the sky— Skeletons wild and warning. Quaking to see thee die. Thou hast lived thy life, remember; Now lay thee down and rest; The grass shall grow above thy head, And the flower above thy breast.
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