The Passing of the Year. A Poem

THE PASSING OF THE YEAR. What is thy end, 0 foot-tread of the year, And thou, dank husk, flung wilting on life's pyre? When not one hand of all that thou hast led May turn to touch anew thy silenced lyre; Is pure regretting something nobler, higher Than passion-painted words of ours can tell? Is silence nearer to the great wide Calm, Whence mighty wmgs of peace spread forth to heal, With voiceless power, like touch of myrrh's balm? Blest are thy depths, 0 heart-beat penitent. When, like a flood-tide battling to be heard. Contrition doth entreat with thee for voice. And all thy wells of purity are stirred — Yet unresponsive lips can sound no word — For mute revealing hath no claims of earth. And in the dawn that spans the pain of tears, There shall our intent mingle voice with His, Who garners back the harvest of the years. Bertha E. Anderson.