Lake Lyrics and Other Poems

by William Wilfred Campbell


 

THE PASSING YEAR


 

LIKE vikings came the rude blasts of November
   Chanting aloud the death song of the year;
Sadder and bleaker came the pale December,
With haggard woods and fitful dying ember,
   And leaves all dead and sere,
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                                        Withered and sere.

I sit alone where the bright hearth-logs gleaming
   Into the gusty night red sparks do send;
The chimney’s moan doth answer to my dreaming,
And the old year hath to me all the seeming

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   Of a familiar friend,
                         An old but vanished friend.

Bloweth the winter, from his forest leaping,
   Loud Boreas cometh from bleak arctic field,
Cometh with white gust in the midnight sweeping,

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And findeth the Old Year like some Norse-king sleeping
   Upon his battle shield,
               With white locks, on his shield.