MALCOLM HEMPHREY
Corporal, Army Ordnance Corps
The New Year[1]
THE white moon like a queenly ship
Sails down the blue and tropic night,
And all the clouds in homage slip
Into her light.
A quiet veil lies on the earth,
Whose silver glory makes me sad—
Beyond, ah me! War's crashing mirth
Rings wild and mad.
Begone, old year, pass from thy own,
And make thou way for newer life;
Nor grace nor pity will atone
For all thy strife.
I watch thy last few embers die,
And thy bleak ashes—blown around
By strong winds that go whirling by—
Sink to the ground.
- ↑ The idea of this poem came to me on the last night of the old year as, lying awake long after "lights out," I gazed out at the sky through my tent lattice-window.
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