Though no man may cast my horoscope,
And fathom futurity.
Plenty and ease, a garnered store,
And the wealth of the fruitful earth,
I may give perchance,—or famine sore
And the pitiful pinch of dearth.
I am the bringer to young and old,
Of gifts that they shun and crave:
Change, and sorrow, and love, and gold,
And to some the gift of a grave.
But to all the comfort of hope new-born.
Of a sunrise dawning clear,
That makes men smile on my First Day's morn,
And speak of "A Happy New Year."
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