The snow has ceased its fluttering flight, <br />The wind sunk to a whisper light, <br />An ominous stillness fills the night, <br />A pause — a hush. <br />At last, a sound that breaks the spell, <br />Loud, clanging mouthings of a bell, <br />That through the silence peal and swell, <br />And roll, and rush. <br /> <br />What does this brazen tongue declare, <br />That falling on the midnight air <br />Brings to my heart a sense of care <br />Akin to fright? <br />'Tis telling that the year is dead, <br />The New Year come, the Old Year fled, <br />Another leaf before me spread <br />On which to write. <br /> <br />It tells the deeds that were not done, <br />It tells of races never run, <br />Of victories that were not won, <br />Barriers unleaped. <br />It tells of many a squandered day, <br />Of slighted gems and treasured clay, <br />Of precious stores not laid away, <br />Of fields unreaped. <br /> <br />And so the years go swiftly by, <br />Each, coming, brings ambitions high, <br />And each, departing, leaves a sigh <br />Linked to the past. <br />Large resolutions, little deeds; <br />Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds <br />Until the blotted record reads, <br />'Failure!' at last.<br /><br />James Weldon Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ghosts-of-the-old-year/
