05.05.2009, 18:49
NEW YEAR'S DAY.
It is a misty morning, that may turn
To tears or sunshine; I see nothing now,
But great trees looming dim, with quiet bough,
Over the shadowy deer that cross the fern.
All things seem vague as an oracle, Old Urn,
Wreck of the augurial Tuscan ; ay, e'en thou
Hast on thy gloomy side figures enow,
Whose dark ideal sense we scarce discern.
And as I scan them, near the frosty glass,
Whose marks seem like a web, to some near thorn,
Or arbutus, or laurel, loosely spun;
My thoughts, quick rising, to the future pass ;
For, out the stillness of this wintry morn,
A New Year hath its solemn march begun.
It is a misty morning, that may turn
To tears or sunshine; I see nothing now,
But great trees looming dim, with quiet bough,
Over the shadowy deer that cross the fern.
All things seem vague as an oracle, Old Urn,
Wreck of the augurial Tuscan ; ay, e'en thou
Hast on thy gloomy side figures enow,
Whose dark ideal sense we scarce discern.
And as I scan them, near the frosty glass,
Whose marks seem like a web, to some near thorn,
Or arbutus, or laurel, loosely spun;
My thoughts, quick rising, to the future pass ;
For, out the stillness of this wintry morn,
A New Year hath its solemn march begun.