Meditações - A New Year's Eve in War Time

A New Year's Eve in War Time

                          I

 

            Phantasmal fears,

            And the flap of the flame,

            And the throb of the clock,

            And a loosened slate,

            And the blind night's drone,

Which tiredly the spectral pines intone!

 

 

                          II

 

            And the blood in my ears

            Strumming always the same,

            And the gable-cock

            With its fitful grate,

            And myself, alone.

 

 

                         III

 

            The twelfth hour nears

            Hand-hid, as in shame;

            I undo the lock,

            And listen, and wait

            For the Young Unknown.

 

 

                         IV

 

            In the dark there careers —

            As if Death astride came

            To numb all with his knock —

            A horse at mad rate

            Over rut and stone.

 

 

                         V

 

            No figure appears,

            No call of my name,

            No sound but 'Tic-toc'

            Without check. Past the gate

            It clatters — is gone.

 

 

                         VI

 

            What rider it bears

            There is none to proclaim;

            And the Old Year has struck,

            And, scarce animate,

            The New makes moan.

 

 

                         VII

 

            Maybe that 'More Tears! —

            More Famine and Flame —

            More Severance and Shock!'

            Is the order from Fate

            That the Rider speeds on

To pale Europe; and tiredly the pines intone.

Thomas Hardy