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| LAST night at twelve, amid the knee-deep snows, | |
| A child of Time accepted his repose,— | |
| The eighteen hundred fifty-sixth of grace, | |
| With sudden chance, fell forward on his face. | |
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| Solemn and slow the winter sun had gone, | 5 |
| Sailing full early for the port of dawn; | |
| Across broad zones of the ethereal sea, | |
| With even rate he voyaged far and free, | |
| While the cone-shadow of the earth swept round | |
| The other half of heaven’s embracing bound— | 10 |
| A weird and mystic dial-hand to mark, | |
| From orb to orb, along the shuddering arc, | |
| Measured to music of the sphery chime, | |
| The noiseless process of eternal time. | |
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| I walked in doubt and dread—as if the weight | 15 |
| Of all the impending heaven upon me sate: | |
| The crisp snow creaked, my breath pushed stiffly out, | |
| And keen frost-sparkles merrily glanced about; | |
| The clear cold stars reached down a frory ray, | |
| Like a fine icicle accrete of spray, | 20 |
| That pricked my blood with many a light attack | |
| Of Lilliput lances in my front and back, | |
| For every several nerve alive to feel | |
| The eager season had some shrewd appeal. | |
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| And so the fields I gained, and there I found | 25 |
| The fresh dry snow laid by that querulous sound, | |
| And all grew still as death. Within my breast | |
| Hushing the noisy heart-beat, on I pressed. | |
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| The punctual shadow to the summit drew; | |
| Twelve strokes of lighter silence fell like dew, | 30 |
| Audible to the spirit, and behold, | |
| The vision of the Dead Year was unrolled. | |
| Full length he leaned aslant the slumbering snow, | |
| Which clad all things in Chinese weeds of woe, | |
| Easing his fall—that not a breath might mar | 35 |
| The listening awe that yearned from snow to star. | |
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| But over him a spirit fair doth smile, | |
| As fain all grief with gladness to beguile; | |
| A torch he bears to light the world anew— | |
| O blithe Young Year, but keep thy promise true! | 40 |
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