January 2. Aftermath.

If it might be, Life's harvest being past, And past the perfect fruitage of the soul, I yet might gather up some small sweet dole From out Time's fingers in the wide fields cast— If it might be that though from out the vast Blue spaces all the tides of light did roll, There yet might linger some pale aureole To faintly flush my western sky at last— I would forbear youth's lordly large demands, Nor swallow tears at sight of loaded wains Of others who all full and rich did go; Content that I, no more with empty hands, Might bear across the level darkening lands My sweet few sheaves home through the afterglow.