The Old Year - A poem by Mary Stevenson

The Old Year.

Gone, gone forever, 'tis a solemn sound,
And the old year has gained the other shore;
So swiftly fly the messengers of time,
That ere we know it, it is ours no more.

Time never falters to retrace his steps,
Not e'en a moment can we call our own;
For while we're thinking 'ti the present yet,
'Tis gone forever, yes, forever flown.

A few short years, and all that mingle here
Will sleeping be within the silent grave;
All the familiar forms we hold so dear
Return to dust, the soul to him who gave.

Yes, we must cast this tenement of clay
Back to the bosom of its mother sod,
And soar to regions of eternal day,
Or sink in shame, to meet an angry God.

Then where will be the soul that never dies;
Let's hope 'twill merit brighter worlds than this,
And seek a home, in grunder azure sky,
A heavenly home of never-ending bliss.

Then let us each improve the time that's here,
Nor squander that which we cannot recall;
For soon will end this life of joy and fear,
And we be laid upon the silent pall.

^__Mary Stevenson.

Poets and Poetry of Kansas
Edited by Thomas W. Herringshaw
(Chicago: American Publishers' Association. 1894)
Page 265