Poems (Bushnell)/New Year's Eve

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

XVIII
NEW YEAR'S EVE

How old our planet looks to-night,
 The hoary landscape blind and bare,
 The heavy labor of the air,
The dying breath, the dying light!

What if the year were really new,
 And this time-weary world of ours,
 Made freshly fair as Eden's bowers,
Were newly launched upon the blue?

What if this wayworn human race,
 Clean from its sweat, its dust and grime,
 Might cool its steps in morning-prime
And feel the dawn upon its face?

And what if I among the rest,
 New-waking on a sunrise shore,
 Might see the opening day before,
With life unblossomed in my breast?

Ah! it were but an empty boon
 Unless the new arise within;
 Since all renewals that begin
Outside the heart grow old so soon.

Forever old is he and blind,
 Whose feet pass through some open door
 That leads to newer days before,
Yet leave his laggard soul behind.

Oh! rather may the soul come, too,
 When life through gates of change is drawn.
 If that but feel the touch of dawn,
Then will the year be really new!