"You crown me dead," the Old Year said,
"Before my parting hour is sped,
O fickle, false and reckless world!
Time to Eternity may not haste;
Not 'til the last Hour's wing is furled
Within the gate my reign is passed:
O Earth! O World! fair, false and vain,
I grieve not at my closing reign."
Yet spirit-sore
The dead King noted a palace door;
He saw the gay crowd gather in,
He scanned the face of each passerby,
Snowiest soul and heart of sin,
Tried and untried humanity,
Age and Youth, Pleasure and Pain,
Braided at chance in a motley skein.
"Ill betide
Ye thankless ones!" the Old Year cried:
"Have I not given you night and day,
Over and over, score upon score,
Wherein to live, and love, and pray,
And suck the ripe world to its rotten core?
Yet do ye reek if my reign be done?
Ere I pass ye crown the newer one.
At ball and rout ye dance and shout,
91
