December / Edwin Arnold

December

In fret-work of frost and spangle of snow
Unto his end the year doth wend;
And sadly for some the days did go,
And glad for some were beginning and end!
But — sad or glad — grieve not for his death,
Mournfully counting your measures of breath,
You, that, before the stars began,
Were seed of woman and promise of man,
You who are older than Aldebaran!
It was but a ring round about the Sun,
One passing dance of the planets done;
One step of the Infinite Minuet
Which the great worlds pace, to a music set
By Life immortal and Love divine:
Whereof is struck, in your threescore and ten,
One chord of the harmony, fair and fine,
Of that which maketh us women and men!
In fret-work of frost and spangle of snow,
Sad or glad — let the old year go!

~~

Edwin Arnold (1832-1904)

from Poems: National and non-oriental, 1906

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[January]

Edwin Arnold biography

Hannes Grobe, New Year's Eve 2022/23 in Bremerhaven, Germany.

CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

The Old Year out and the New Year in / Augusta Webster

The Old Year out and the New Year in

Ring then, ring loudly, merry midnight bells,
Peal the new lord of days blithe welcoming —
What though your sweet‐scaled tones be also knells,

Be knells the while for the old fallen king
Resting his dying head upon the snow?
Ring out the old year, for the new year ring.

Mock him with laughing voices, bid him go;
Let him make haste to rest among the dead,
He is no more it lord for life to know.

Ring in the coming year; his power has fled,
He has no blessing and no sorrow more.
Ah well; yet should no tear for him be shed

Surely some gift of good to men he bore,
He too was greeted as an honoured guest;
Ah fickle! do we joy his reign is o’er?

Should we so vex him, as he sinks to rest,
Greeting with glad acclaim his passing sigh?
He droops into his grave unmourned, unblest;

With dying ears he hears the joyous cry
That bids his rival take his crown and reign;
The mirth of music and of songs laughs by;

He hears men merry at his dying pain,
“He breathes his last, laugh him a gay good‐bye.”—
And yet he did not live with us in vain.

But what is this to me? Well, let him die.
Did he bring any joy or good to me?
He taught me tears, shall tears now flood mine eye?

But I among the rest make jubilee,
(Here in the midnight, sitting all alone,
Far in my heart from any thought of glee),

And, triumphing to see him overthrown,
I say “Yes die, make haste to thy far flight,
Let the new days reap that which thou hast sown.”

For thou hast sown; and if thy stormful might
Has crushed the buddings of the former years,
Ah well! their fields of promise were too bright,

Too bright — oh! childish folly of vain tears,
To weep for weeds which were no more than fair,
And dwarfed the fulness of the golden ears!—

Too bright with cornflowers and the crimson flare
Of idle poppies, and with purpled chains
Of trailing vetch too frail its weight to bear.

Well, thou hast broken them with they strong rains
And buried them to death beneath thy snows —
What though with them have sunk the swelling grains?

For nought can perish quite; the crimson glows
Will be more faint, the purples fade away,
But harvest wealth will wave in closer rows.

The buried blooms give life from their decay,
And strength and fulness to the aftergrowth,
Out from their graves it climbs to a perfect day.

So comes a richer fruit. Why am I wroth
With thee, old year? And yet I am content:
Now in that thought, now this, and doubting both.

I say “Haste hence; I joy thy life is spent,
I shall breathe freer when thy reign is o’er;
Let the young lord of hopes make his ascent.”

I say “Oh dying year, my heart is sore
For thee who hast become a part of me,
I grieve that I shall see thy face no more.”

And all the while the death‐chills creep o’er thee
Lying on thy cold couch ’mid snow and rain;
A moment now, and thou hast ceased to be.

Hark! hark! the music of the merry chime!
The King is dead! God’s blessing on the King!
Welcome with gladness this new King of Time.

Oh merry midnight bells, ring blithely, ring,
Wake with your breathless peal the startled night,
High in your belfry in mad frolic swing.

Laugh out again, sweet music and delight,
In happy homes a moment hushed to hear
The midnight strokes boom out the old year’s flight.

See, he is gone for ever, the old year,
Why should we vex our hearts with sad farewells?
Let the dead sleep, bare not his shrouded bier,

Ring on, ring yet more gladly, merry bells,
Peal the new lord of days glad welcoming—
What though your happy chimes be also knells?

~~
Augusta Webster (1837-1894)
from A Woman Sold, and other poems, 1867

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Augusta Webster biography

Happy New Year lithograph, 1876, Public domain, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Auld Lang Syne / Robert Burns

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And auld lang syne!

Chorus:   For auld lang syne, my dear,
                For auld lang syne,
                We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
                For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!
    And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
    For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
    And pu’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit
    Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’t i' the burn,
    From morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
    Sin’ auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fere,
    And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught
    For auld lang syne.

~~
Robert Burns (1759-1796), 1788

from Selections from the Poems, 1898

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Robert Burns biography

"Auld Lang Syne" sung by Dougie MacLean. Courtesy  butterstonestudios.

Good Riddance, but Now What? / Ogden Nash

Good Riddance, But Now What?

Come, children, gather round my knee;
Something is about to be.
Tonight’s December thirty-first,
Something is about to burst.
The clock is crouching, dark and small,
Like a time bomb in the hall.
Hark! It’s midnight, children dear.
Duck! Here comes another year.

~~
Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
from Versus,1949

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Ogden Nash biography

"Good Riddance, But Now What?" read by Anthony Roberts. Courtesy Colchester Arts Centre.

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year

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!

The leaves are falling, falling,
    Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
    It is a sound of woe,
        A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain-passes
    The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
    Singing: Pray for this poor soul,
        Pray,— pray!

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!

There he stands in the foul weather,
    The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
    Like weak, despised Lear,
        A king,— a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
    Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! O, the old man gray
    Loveth that ever-soft voice,
        Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,
    And 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!

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!

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!

Then comes, with an awful roar,
    Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
    The wind Euroclydon,
        The storm-wind!

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!

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!
         Christe, Eleyson!

~~
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
from Voices of the Night, 1839

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography

"Midnight Mass for the Dying Year" read by Brad Craft. Courtesy usedbuyer.

See also: The Death of the Old Year / Affred Tannyson

New Year's Eve / Charles G.D. Roberts

New Year's Eve

(after the French of Frechette)

Ye night winds shaking the weighted boughs
    Of snow-blanched hemlock and frosted fir,
While crackles sharply the thin crust under
    The passing feet of the wayfarer;

Ye night cries pulsing in long-drawn waves
    Where beats the bitter tide to its flood;
A tumult of pain, a rumour of sorrow,
    Troubling the starred night's tranquil mood.
;
Ye shudderings where, like a great beast bound,
    The forest strains to its depths remote;
Be still and hark! From the high gray tower
    The great bell sobs in its brazen throat.

A strange voice out of the pallid heaven,
    Twelve sobs it utters, and stops. Midnight!
Tis the ominous Hail! and the stern Farewell!
    Of Past and Present in passing flight.

This moment, herald of hope and doom,
    That cries in our ears and then is gone,
Has marked for us in the awful volume
    One step toward the infinite dark — or dawn!

A year is gone, and a year begins.
    Ye wise ones, knowing in Nature's scheme,
Oh tell us whither they go, the years
    That drop in the gulfs of time and dream!

They go to the goal of all things mortal,
    Where fade our destinies, scarce perceived,
To the dim abyss wherein time confounds them —
    The hours we laughed and the days we grieved.

They go where the bubbles of rainbow break
    We breathed in our youth of love and fame,
Where great and small are as one together,
    And oak and windflower counted the same.

They go where follow our smiles and tears,
    The gold of youth and the gray of age,
Where falls the storm and falls the stillness,
    The laughter of spring and winter's rage.

What hand shall gauge the depth of time
    Or a little measure eternity?
God only, as they unroll before Him,
    Conceives and orders the mystery.

~~
Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)
from Songs of the Common Day, 1893

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Charles G.D. Roberts biography

Michal Osmenda, Wintery Midnight, 2010. CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Now dreary dawns the eastern light / A.E. Housman

XXVIII

Now dreary dawns the eastern light,
        And fall of eve is drear,
And cold the poor man lies at night,
        And so goes out the year.

Little is the luck I've had,
        And oh, 'tis comfort small
To think that many another lad
        Has had no luck at all.

~~
A.E. Housman (1859-1936)
from Last Poems, 1922

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

John Everett Millais (1829-1896), Blow, Blow thou winter wind, 1892.

Public domain, Wikimedia Commons

A.E. Housman biography

New Year's Eve, 1913 / Gordon Bottomley

New Year's Eve, 1913

O, Cartmel bells ring soft to-night,
    And Cartmel bells ring clear,
But I lie far away to-night,
    Listening with my dear;

Listening in a frosty land
    Where all the bells are still
And the small-windowed bell-towers stand
    Dark under heath and hill.

I thought that, with each dying year,
    As long as life should last
The bells of Cartmel I should hear
    Ring out an aged past:

The plunging, mingling sounds increase
    Darkness's depth and height,
The hollow valley gains more peace
    And ancientness to-night:

The loveliness, the fruitfulness,
    The power of life lived there
Return, revive, more closely press
    Upon that midnight air.

But many deaths have place in men
    Before they come to die;
Joys must be used and spent, and then
    Abandoned and passed by.

Earth is not ours; no cherished space
    Can hold us from life's flow,
That bears us thither and thence by ways
    We knew not we should go.

O, Cartmel bells ring loud, ring clear,
    Through midnight deep and hoar,
A year new-born, and I shall hear
    The Cartmel bells no more.

~~
Gordon Bottomley (1874-1948)
from Poems of Thirty Years, 1925

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]

Gordon Bottomley biography

Old and New Year Ditties / Christina Rossetti (3 poems)

Old and New Year Ditties

1.

New Year met me somewhat sad:
Old Year leaves me tired,
Stripped of favourite things I had,
Baulked of much desired:
Yet farther on my road to-day
God willing, farther on my way.

New Year coming on apace,
What have you to give me?
Bring you scathe, or bring you grace,
Face me with an honest face;
You shall not deceive me:
Be it good or ill, be it what you will,
It needs shall help me on my road,
My rugged way to heaven, please God.


2.

Watch with me, men, women, and children dear,
You whom I love, for whom I hope and fear,
Watch with me this last vigil of the year.
Some hug their business, some their pleasure-scheme;
Some seize the vacant hour to sleep or dream;
Heart locked in heart some kneel and watch apart.

Watch with me blessed spirits, who delight
All through the holy night to walk in white,
Or take your ease after the long-drawn fight.
I know not if they watch with me: I know
They count this eve of resurrection slow,
And cry, ‘How long?’ with urgent utterance strong.

Watch with me Jesus, in my loneliness:
Though others say me nay, yet say Thou yes;
Though others pass me by, stop Thou to bless.
Yea, Thou dost stop with me this vigil night;
To-night of pain, to-morrow of delight:
I, Love, am Thine; Thou, Lord my God, art mine.


3.

Passing away, saith the World, passing away:
Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day:
Thy life never continueth in one stay.
Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey
That hath won neither laurel nor bay?
I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:
Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay
On my bosom for aye.
Then I answered: Yea.

Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:
With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play;
Hearken what the past doth witness and say:
Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,
A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.
At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day
Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:
Watch thou and pray.
Then I answered: Yea.

Passing away, saith my God, passing away:
Winter passeth after the long delay:
New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,
Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven’s May.
Though I tarry wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray:
Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day,
My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.
Then I answered: Yea.

~~
Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
from Goblin Market,  and other poems, 1862

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide.]

Christina Rossetti biography

"Old and New Year Ditties" read by Kate Sandison.

The Passing of the Year / Robert Service

The Passing of the Year

My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
     My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire I sit,
     And wait to feel the old year go.
I dedicate to solemn thought
     Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
     With much of blame, with little praise.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
     You stand to bow your last adieu;
A moment, and the prompter's chime
     Will ring the curtain down on you.
Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
     You falter as a Sage in pain;
Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
     And face your audience again.

That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
     Let us all read, whate'er the cost:
O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
     Is it for dear ones you have lost?
Is it for fond illusion gone?
     For trusted lover proved untrue?
O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
     What hath the Old Year meant to you?

And you, O neighbour on my right
     So sleek, so prosperously clad!
What see you in that aged wight
     That makes your smile so gay and glad?
What opportunity unmissed?
     What golden gain, what pride of place?
What splendid hope? O Optimist!
     What read you in that withered face?

And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
     What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of a tragic doom?
     What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
     What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
     What see you in the dying year?

And so from face to face I flit,
     The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are with approbation lit,
     And some are shadowed with despair.
Some show a smile and some a frown;
     Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!
     Old weary year! it's time to go.

My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
     My fire is almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
     And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that's true,
     For we've been comrades, you and I –
I thank God for each day of you;
     There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!

~~ 
Robert Service (1874-1958)
from Rhymes of a Rolling Stone, 1912

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Robert Service biography

Under the Holly Bough / Charles Mackay

Under the Holly Bough

Ye who have scorned each other,
Or injured friend or brother,
     In this fast-fading year;
Ye who, by word or deed,
Have made a kind heart bleed,
     Come gather here!

Let sinned against and sinning
Forget their strife's beginning,
     And join in friendship now.
Be links no longer broken,
Be sweet forgiveness spoken
     Under the Holly-Bough.

Ye who have loved each other,
Sister and friend and brother,
    In this fast-fading year:
Mother and sire and child,
Young man and maiden mild,
    Come gather here;

And let your heart grow fonder,
As memory shall ponder
    Each past unbroken vow;
Old loves and younger wooing
Are sweet in the renewing
     Under the Holly-Bough.

Ye who have nourished sadness,
Estranged from hope and gladness
     In this fast-fading year;
Ye with o'erburdened mind,
Made aliens from your kind,
     Come gather here.

Let not the useless sorrow
Pursue you night and morrow,
     If e'er you hoped, hope now.
Take heart,— uncloud your faces,
And join in our embraces
     Under the Holly-Bough.

~~
Charles Mackay (1814-1889)
from Christmas with the Poets, 1881

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Towson High Music, "Under the Holly Bough"

Charles Mackay biography

My Lady of the Sonnets, one word more / Robert Norwood

XXX

My Lady of the Sonnets, one word more,
The last; and, after, let the silence fall.
Our year is ended, and things great and small
Glow with its glory; could we live it o'er,
What would we scatter from its precious store
Of pearl, chalcedony, and topaz — all
The many-jewelled moments that we call
Love's treasure — we who had not loved before!
Into that treasure plunge we both our hands,
The while we laugh, and love, and live again.
What rainbow-splendours and what golden sands
Fall from our fingers! . . . Now let come the pain
And steal the shadow, moan the wintry sea;
Locked is the casket: in your hands the key!

~~
Robert Norwood (1874-1932)
from His Lady of the Sonnets, 1915

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Robert Norwood biography

Dirge of the Departed Year / John Leyden

Dirge of the Departed Year

To Olivia

Malaya's woods and mountains ring
     With voices strange but sad to hear;
And dark unbodied spirits sing
     The dirge of the departed year.

Lo! now, methinks, in tones sublime,
     As viewless o'er our heads they bend,
They whisper, "thus we steal your time,
     Weak mortals! till your days shall end."

Then wake the dance, and wake the song.
     Resound the festive mirth and glee!
Alas! the days have pass'd along —
     The days we never more shall see.

But let me brush the nightly dews,
     Beside the shell-depainted shore,
And mid the sea-weeds sit to muse
     On days that shall return no more.

Olivia, ah! forgive the bard,
     If sprightly strains alone are dear:
His notes are sad, for he has heard
     The footsteps of the parting year.

'Mid friends of youth, belov'd in vain,
     Oft have I hail'd this jocund day.
If pleasure brought a thought of pain,
     I charm'd it with a passing lay.

Friends of my youth, for ever dear,
     Where are you from this bosom fled?
A lonely man I linger here,
     Like one that has been long time dead.

Fore-doom 'd to seek an early tomb,
     For whom the pallid grave-flowers blow,
I hasten on my destin'd doom,
     And sternly mock at joy or woe.

Yet, while the circling year returns,
     Till years to me return no more,
Still in my breast affection burns
     With purer ardour than before.

Departed year! thine earliest beam,
     When first it grac'd thy splendid round,
Beheld me by the Caveri's stream,
     A man unblest on holy ground.

With many a lingering step and slow,
     I left Mysura's hills afar,
Through Curga's rocks I past below,
     To trace the lakes of Malabar.

Sweet Malabar! thy suns, that shine
     With soften'd light through summer showers,
Might charm a sadder soul than mine
     To joy amid thy lotus-flowers.

For each sweet scene I wander'd o'er,
     Fair scenes that shall be ever dear,
From Curga's hills to Travencore —
     I hail thy steps, departed year!

But chief that in this eastern isle,
     Girt by the green and glistering wave,
Olivia's kind endearing: smile
     Seem'd to recall me from the grave.

When, far beyond Malaya's sea,
      I trace dark Soonda's forests drear,
Olivia! I shall think of thee;—
      And bless thy steps, departed year!

Each morn or evening spent with thee
     Fancy shall mid the wilds restore
In all their charms, and they shall be
     Sweet days that shall return no more.

Still may'st thou live in bliss secure,
     Beneath that friend's protecting care,
And may his cherish'd life endure
     Long, long, thy holy love to share.

~~

John Leyden (1775-1811) 
January 1806

from Poetical Works, 1875

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

John Leyden biography

A Song for New Year's Eve / William Cullen Bryant

A Song for New Year's Eve

Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay—
     Stay till the good old year,
So long companion of our way,
     Shakes hands, and leaves us here.
          Oh stay, oh stay,
One little hour, and then away.

The year, whose hopes were high and strong,
     Has now no hopes to wake;
Yet one hour more of jest and song
     For his familiar sake.
          Oh stay, oh stay,
One mirthful hour, and then away.

The kindly year, his liberal hands
     Have lavished all his store.
And shall we turn from where he stands,
     Because he gives no more?
          Oh stay, oh stay,
One grateful hour, and then away.

Days brightly came and calmly went,
     While yet he was our guest;
How cheerfully the week was spent!
     How sweet the seventh day’s rest!
          Oh stay, oh stay,
One golden hour, and then away.

Dear friends were with us, some who sleep
     Beneath the coffin-lid:
What pleasant memories we keep
     Of all they said and did!
          Oh stay, oh stay,
One tender hour, and then away.

Even while we sing, he smiles his last,
     And leaves our sphere behind.
The good old year is with the past;
     Oh be the new as kind!
          Oh stay, oh stay,
One parting strain, and then away.

~~
William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), 1859
from Thirty Poems, 1864

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Cullen Bryant biography

Lines to the New Year, 1822 / Adam Hood Burwell

Lines to the New Year, 1822

Now dark December, with his stormy hand,
Hath closed the circle of the rolling year,
That rearward glides along the length of ages,
And yields his place to coming months which spring
                             New from the lap of time.

Sad was the scene; no incense-breathing gales
Caught his last sigh; no choral groves their hymns
Or joy and love, gave as he quit, the scene,
Nor genial suns, with love-inspiring ray,
                             Shone on his parting hour.

But sullen winter with congealing touch,
Seal’d first his eyes, and howling Boreas blew
His fiercest blast, and hurl’d the snowy shroud
Furious around him, and flung o’er his grave
                             An icy monument.

Nature convulsed, confest the parting pangs,
And, as the year sunk in the grave of time,
She travail’d with his sun and heir, and lo!
The mid-night hour received the new-born babe,
                             Cradled in wintery storms.

And we, frail mortals, hail’d th’ auspicious hour
That told the coming of another year,
With light and life, and all the blessing he,
The sire of being, gives; and grateful hearts
                             Our joyful bosoms swell’d.

Offspring of time! thrice welcome to our world;
Tho’ storms obscure thy birth, and Winter hold
His iron sceptre o’er thy wide domains,
Yet spring succeeds them, and her virgin-charms
                             Shall warm thee into life.

The peeping violet on its grassy couch,
Each fairy flower, the dew-bespangled mead,
The forest clothed in green, the joyous birds
That tune their throats to love; all that hath life,
                             Their all shall bring to thee.

The fervid suns that Summer’s long arch sweeps,
The thunder cloud that wets the teeming earth,
The beauteous harvests rising on the plain,
The gales that fan them; All conspiring, shall
                             Thy ripening manhood fill.

Matured with Autumn, thou shalt with her too
Decline; and as she sheds her honours round,
In manly age thy mellow self shalt sink,
And pale October’s latests sun shall shine
                             Upon thy lockless brow.

And, like thy sire, hoar Winter’s heavy hand
Thou shalt confess, and feel the blasting storms
That shook his from his hold of earthly things —
And, as he gave thee place, so shalt thou cede
                             Unto another year.

Frail man! behold a picture of thyself —
Thy life is but the circle of a year,
Which death will surely close — Then, to the work
Thou hast to do! That, when thy year’s complete,
                             Life may be thine hereafter.

~~
Adam Hood Burwell (1790-1849)
from the Montreal Scribbler, December 1821

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Adam Hood Burwell biography

New Year / Richard Le Gallienne

New Year
Rondeau

With vain regret we watch the year
Departing. Eighty-nine is here,
     And poor old Eighty-eight has ended —
     And have our ways and morals mended
A whit these twelve months gone, my dear?

No great improvement will appear
In either yours or mine, I fear;
     The past had best go unattended
                    With vain regret.

Of dark surmises keeping clear,
Let's wisely take without a tear
     The bitter with the sweetness blended;
     We'll hope by Fate to be befriended,
Nor sigh, when Ninety shall be near
                    With vain regret.

~~
Richard Le Gallienne (1866-1947)
from Twilight and Candle-Shades, 1888

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Richard Le Gallienne biography

Christmas Prophecy / Arthur Wentworth Eaton

Christmas Prophecy

Silvery-bearded, bent, and gray,
The Old Year passeth swift away,
Yet the ringers he keeps in his belfry tower
Peal no dirge for his waning power.

He is bidding them ring so joyously,
Can the Year of his end forgetful be ?
"Ah, no," he says, "I am old and worn
But the young Christ-life to-day is born;

"I have led the world to its Christmas-tide,
I have opened the door of Heaven wide,
And bells of the ages hung on high
Are chiming out God's charity.

"O welcome, then, the Bethlehem Boy,
Sing at his cradle songs of joy,
Wreathe for his altars holly red,
For the shames of earth at last are dead."

~~
Arthur Wentworth Eaton
from Songs of the Christian Year, 1905

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Arthur Wentworth Eaton biography

December / John Davidson

December

The heartless, sapless, dying year
     With icy fingers
Clutches the earth in mortal fear;
     And while life lingers

Within his veins that swelled with spring,
     And glowed with summer.
And now are poisoned by the sting
     Of that old-comer.

Who comes to all to end their days,
     Whom men call Death,
He breathes upon the earth's wan face
     His chilly breath,

If it may be to strike her dead
     For company;
To die alone he is afraid;
     And some there be

Of men and flowers as old and frail.
     With blood as sere,
And some both young and sweet, as pale
     As is the year,

Who will be buried in the snow
     With him to sleep;
Their souls came from and now must go
     To the unknown deep.

But those whose lives are dwelling still
     In lively frames
Are full of mirth, and take their fill
     Of works and games:

Make love, make wealth, gain fame, gain power,
     As if for ever.
Forget that life is but an hour,
     A sea-bound river,

And warm with sport laugh at the cold;
     Yet is it true
If they live long they will grow old —
     I mean not you;

Not you, nor me: we only know
     Our blood is fire
Can melt the longest winter's snow,
     And not expire.

~~
John Davidson (1857-1909)
from In a Music Hall, and other poems, 1891

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

John Davidson biography

The Death of the Old Year / Alfred Tennyson

The Death of the Old Year

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
       Old year you must not die;
       You came to us so readily,
       You lived with us so steadily,
       Old year you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend and a true truelove
And the New-year will take 'em away.
       Old year you must not go;
       So long you have been with us,
       Such joy as you have seen with us,
       Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
       Old year, you shall not die;
       We did so laugh and cry with you,
       I've half a mind to die with you,
       Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.
       Every one for his own.
       The night is starry and cold, my friend,
       And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,
       Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps: the light burns low:
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.
       Shake hands, before you die.
       Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
       What is it we can do for you?
       Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone,
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,
       And waiteth at the door.
       There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,
       And a new face at the door, my friend,
       A new face at the door.

~~
Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
from Poems, 1842

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Alfred Tennyson biography

"The Death of the Old Year" read by Brad Craft. Courtesy usedbuyer.

See also: Midnight Mass for the Dying Year / Henry Wadssworth Longfellow

The Old Year / John Clare

The Old Year

The Old Year's gone away
     To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day
     Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark or place
     In either shade or sun:
The last year he'd a neighbour's face,
     In this he's known by none.

All nothing everywhere:
     Mists we on mornings see
Have more of substance when they're here
     And more of form than he.
He was a friend by every fire,
     In every cot and hall --
A guest to every heart's desire,
     And now he's nought at all.

Old papers thrown away,
     Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
     Are things identified;
But time once torn away
     No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year's Day
     Left the Old Year lost to all.

~~
John Clare
from Poems Chiefly from Manuscript (edited by Edmund Blunden and Alan Porter), 1920.

[Poem is in the public domain]

John Clare biography