YES, the Year is growing old, | |
| And his eye is pale and bleared! | |
| Death, with frosty hand and cold, | |
| Plucks the old man by the beard, | |
| Sorely, sorely! | 5 |
| |
| The leaves are falling, falling, | |
| Solemnly and slow; | |
| Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, | |
| It is a sound of woe, | |
| A sound of woe! | 10 |
| |
| Through woods and mountain passes | |
| The winds, like anthems, roll; | |
| They are chanting solemn masses, | |
| Singing, “Pray for this poor soul, | |
| Pray, pray!” | 15 |
| |
| And the hooded clouds, like friars, | |
| Tell their beads in drops of rain, | |
| And patter their doleful prayers; | |
| But their prayers are all in vain, | |
| All in vain! | 20 |
| |
| There he stands in the foul weather, | |
| The foolish, fond Old Year, | |
| Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, | |
| Like weak, despisèd Lear, | |
| A king, a king! | 25 |
| |
| Then comes the summer-like day, | |
| Bids the old man rejoice! | |
| His joy! his last! Oh, the old man gray | |
| Loveth that ever-soft voice, | |
| Gentle and low. | 30 |
| |
| To the crimson woods he saith, | |
| To the voice gentle and low | |
| Of the soft air, like a daughter’s breath, | |
| “Pray do not mock me so! | |
| Do not laugh at me!” | 35 |
| |
| And now the sweet day is dead; | |
| Cold in his arms it lies; | |
| No stain from its breath is spread | |
| Over the glassy skies, | |
| No mist or stain! | 40 |
| |
| Then, too, the Old Year dieth, | |
| And the forests utter a moan, | |
| Like the voice of one who crieth | |
| In the wilderness alone, | |
| “Vex not his ghost!” | 45 |
| |
| Then comes, with an awful roar, | |
| Gathering and sounding on, | |
| The storm-wind from Labrador, | |
| The wind Euroclydon, | |
| The storm-wind! | 50 |
| |
| Howl! howl! and from the forest | |
| Sweep the red leaves away! | |
| Would the sins that thou abhorrest, | |
| O soul! could thus decay, | |
| And be swept away! | 55 |
| |
| For there shall come a mightier blast, | |
| There shall be a darker day; | |
| And the stars, from heaven down-cast | |
| Like red leaves be swept away! | |
| Kyrie, eleyson! | 60 |
| Christe, eleyson! | |
| |
