A NEW YEAR'S EVE IN WAR TIME

Phantasmal fears,

And the flap of the flame,

And the throb of the clock,

And a loosened slate,

And the blind night's drone,

Which tiredly the spectral pines intone!

And the blood in my ears

Strumming always the same,

And the gable-cock

With its fitful grate,

And myself, alone.

The twelfth hour nears

Hand-hid, as in shame;

I undo the lock,

And listen, and wait

For the Young Unknown.

In the dark there careers -

As if Death astride came

To numb all with his knock -

A horse at mad rate

Over rut and stone.

No figure appears,

No call of my name,

No sound but “Tic-toc”

Without check. Past the gate

It clatters — is gone.

What rider it bears

There is none to proclaim;

And the Old Year has struck,

And, scarce animate,

The New makes moan.

Maybe that “More Tears! -

More Famine and Flame -

More Severance and Shock!”

Is the order from Fate

That the Rider speeds on

To pale Europe; and tiredly the pines intone.