C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Albert Pike (1809–1891)

Every Year

LIFE is a count of losses,

Every year:

For the weak are heavier crosses

Every year;

Lost Springs with sobs replying

Unto weary Autumn’s sighing,

While those we love are dying,

Every year.

The days have less of gladness

Every year;

The nights more weight of sadness

Every year:

Fair Springs no longer charm us,

The winds and weather harm us,

The threats of death alarm us,

Every year.

There come new cares and sorrows

Every year;

Dark days and darker morrows,

Every year;

The ghosts of dead loves haunt us,

The ghosts of changed friends taunt us,

And disappointments daunt us,

Every year.

To the past go more dead faces

Every year,

As the loved leave vacant places,

Every year;

Everywhere the sad eyes meet us,

In the evening’s dusk they greet us,

And to come to them entreat us,

Every year.

“You are growing old,” they tell us,

“Every year;

You are more alone,” they tell us,

“Every year;

You can win no new affection,

You have only recollection,

Deeper sorrow and dejection,

Every year.”

Too true! Life’s shores are shifting

Every year;

And we are seaward drifting

Every year;

Old places, changing, fret us,

The living more forget us,

There are fewer to regret us,

Every year.

But the truer life draws nigher

Every year;

And its morning-star climbs higher,

Every year;

Earth’s hold on us grows slighter,

And the heavy burthen lighter,

And the Dawn Immortal brighter,

Every year.

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