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For the Old Year.
From Tennyson.
Tears, idle teare, I know not what they mean;
Tears from the depth of some didivne despair
Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn flelds,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ab, sad and strange as the dark summer dawns
The easily pipe of half-awakened birds
To diying [earf?], when under diying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering sqare;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,
O, death in Life, the days that are no more