What is the Old Year? 'Tis a book
On which we backward sadly look,
Not willing quite to see it close,
For leaves of violet and rose
Within its heart are thickly strewn,
Marking love's dawn and golden noon;
And turned-down pages, noting days
Dimly recalled through Memory's haze.

And tear-stained pages, too, that tell
Of starless nights and mournful knell
Of bells tolling through trouble's air
The
De Profundis
of depair -
The laugh, the tear, the shine, the shade,
All 'twixt the covers gently laid;
No uncut leaves; no page unscanned;
Close it and lay it in God's hand.