The year is done. Upon June's tender breast The bygone months like tinted blossoms rest; Sweet on the summer air the wind's low whine Bears on its perfumed wings a silent chime. Where lily-bells ring out the mystic flight of time. Deep in the tangled wood the wild rose burns, Its fragrant lamp: the dreamy bluebird turns Into a floating blossom on the breeze; The silken grasses rustle; murmuring trees Make music with the golden-girdled honeybees. The year is done. Fling wide the open door! Seek out the pen, the printed page, no more! Hear ye not voices calling, sweet and low, From spray-wreathed shore, from tinted orchard snow, From where the spicy pines o'er moonlit meadows blow? The year is done. Its myriad voices blend With others far away. We near the end. Soon shall we close, with reverend hand, the white And sacred books, whose page we dared to write, Whose chapter to illume, whose silvery threads unite. What have we written there? How much survives To broaden and enrich the little lives That touched our own? Into what pathways new That make for greatness have we led? What clue disclosed to find the good, the beautiful, the true Ah, who shall say? Yet 'tis our hand that throws To universal youth love's shadow-rose; Bright rainbows flash athwart the crystal showers; And from our hearts, for childhood's early hours, Steals back the tender fragrance of their cradle-flowers. Far in the shadow-land of the "To be," Another year's bright entrance arch I see; There confidence and power rule the year, While o'er its gleaming gate these words appear: "Distrust and doubt abandon, all who enter here." Yes, for our cultured teachers never can Be aught but ladies true and gentlemen: Theirs is the great, the white-robed brotherhood, Whose salient force can seldom be withstood, Whose influence can ne'er be otherwise than good. By them, the current of electric thought Has trailed the night with stars; their will has wrought Great fields of culture that to mete divides; The knowledge that is joy; the power that glides From man to man, and yet fore'er abides. Is here no vict'ry? Yet the import vast Of coming time shall far outshine the past; And yet, our eager hearts fore'er are strained Out toward the "just beyond," the unattained;— Not what we did, but what we sought to do, we've gained. Ours for a time be tranquil ease and rest, Clasped all day long to Nature's throbbing breast; But when September sounds her silvery horn, Up to the mountain peaks, where glows the morn! A glorious era dawns! A golden age is born! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BALLAD WHICH ANNE ASKEW MADE AND SANG WHEN SHE WAS IN NEWGATE by ANNE ASKEWE ACCOUNTABILITY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR HEAVEN by NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST SONNET: 94 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT [JULY, 1491] by JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE LACHRYMAE MUSARUM (THE DEATH OF TENNYSON) by WILLIAM WATSON THE PLANTING by MARGARET LEE ASHLEY WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM by BERNARD BARTON THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE WALNUT-TREE OF BOARSTELL: CANTO 2 by WILLIAM BASSE |