Time's river flows without a break or bridge,
⁠The moments run to days, the days to years:
Strange how we pause on the dividing ridge,
⁠Which 'twixt Old Year and New our fancy rears!

There, with divided mind, see England stand,
⁠Between the chill of fear, the flush of hope,
Scanning the cloud that lies about the land,
⁠For any rift that way to light may ope.

With backward survey o'er the dark "has been,"
⁠With forward gaze into the dark "to be:"
Summing the good and ill that we have seen,
⁠As if God's purposes stood plain to see —

As if 'twere man's to reach Heaven's far-off ends;
⁠To reckon up Time's harvest in the seed;
To write off gains of good and ill's amends —
⁠The balance of their books as traders read.

As thick a fold between us and the past,
⁠As e'er between us and the future, lies:
The ills we grieve for may work good at last:
⁠Out of our seeming good what ills may rise!

Only one thing we know, that over all
⁠A wise and loving Power holds sovereign sway:
This knowing, let us stand between the years,
⁠Bent but to do the duty of the day;

Speaking the truth and holding to the right,
⁠As we the truth can reach, the right can read;
Trusting the hand that steers, through dark and light,
⁠By His lode-star, not ours, to ends decreed.

Between our larger and our lesser worlds,
⁠Of self, home, city, state or continent,
There is no variance of far or near,
⁠Of great or small, in that Guide's measurement,

Twixt strokes of policy that hit or miss,
⁠And sleights of skill that make or mar a cause.
Then, grateful, take his gifts, his strokes, submiss,
⁠And look to man for rule, to Heaven for laws.

The passion-flowers o'er her bright head drooped,
The roses twined their faint rich blooms above her,
Great crimson fuchsia bells with myrtle grouped,
White lilies watched the maiden and her lover;
The warm air round them fragrant with the breath,
Of violets nestling in their mossy wreath.

The fountain's silvery tinkle, softly chiming,
Blent with sweet laughter and with low replies,
As past the arch, the music's pulses timing,
Flashed flying feet, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes;
And tinted lamps and mellow meonlight strove
To light the happy dream of youth and love.

A little year — a pale girl stood alone,
Where withered tendrils choked a fountain's lip,
And 'mid the ivies, rank and overgrown,
The melting snow, in slow and sullen drip,
Plashed, where 'mid shattered glass and broad arch barred,
A straggling rose-tree kept its silent guard.

"Gone, like the glory of my morn," she said,
"Like faith, and hope, and joy of summer hours;"
And from the untrimmed branches overhead,
She plucked the frailest of the frail pink flowers,
Meet emblem of the love that had its day,
And passed, with spring and beauty, quite away.

Sweeter than voices in the scented hay,
Or laughing children, gleaning ears that stray,
Or Christmas songs, that shake the snows above,
Is the first cuckoo, when he comes with love.

Sadder than birds on sunless summer eves,
Or drip of raindrops on the fallen leaves,
Or wail of wintry waves on frozen shore,
Is spring that comes, but brings us love no more.

For Love I labored all the day,
⁠Through morning chill and midday heat,
For surely, with the evening grey,
⁠I thought, Love's guerdon shall be sweet.

At eventide with weary limb
⁠I brought my labors to the spot
Where Love had bid me come to him;
⁠Thither I came, but found him not.

For he with idle folks had gone
⁠To dance the hours of night away;
And I that toiled was left alone,
⁠Too weary now to dance or play.