To the Pending Year

Have I no weapon-word for thee — some message brief and fierce?

( Have I fought out and done indeed the battle? ) Is there no shot left,

For all thy affectations, lisps, scorns, manifold silliness?

Nor for myself — my own rebellious self in thee?

Down, down, proud gorge!— though choking thee;

Thy bearded throat and high-borne forehead to the gutter;

Crouch low thy neck to eleemosynary gifts.