Thursday, January 18, 2018

The Dying Year

The Dying Year
by John Irving Pearce

Ring bells! oh, ring bells!
For the dying year-
Dawn cometh swiftly;
Death low-hovers near.

Wake! O ye echoes
Of the days long o'er!
Harbingers mytic
Of days now before.

Though many flowers
Ne'er can bloom again,
Though many hours might
Brighter far have been;

Weep not; Oh! weep not!
Other buds will come;
New loves will blossom
In some fairer home.

Let no regrettings
Mar the peaceful close;
Wrap in oblivion
All your weary woes.

Dream on; Oh, dream on!
Through the misty past,
Mingling hope's smiles with 
Mem'ry's tears at last

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