Poems (Bushnell)/Out of the Old, the New

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

VI OUT OF THE OLD, THE NEW

How strange that not in springtime fair,
 When gentle winds run to and fro;
But, trembling in the frosty air,
 The New Year blossoms on the snow.

That not in morning's lovely bloom,
 With silver chimes and merry din,
But slowly through the midnight gloom
 The great bell swings the New Year in.

Ah, life in death! Ah, gain in loss!
 And smiles in eyes that tears bedew;
Love, with its pain,—Heaven, through a cross,—
 'Tis ever thus our years grow new.