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