Poems (Curwen)/Midnight, 1895

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Midnight, 1895.
Ring, O bells! softly, slowly, For this midnight hour is holy With a host of memories, And the thoughts which upward rise, Like the solemn voice of prayer, Which cleaves its passage through the air Chill with the mist: a cold and drear Winding sheet for the old year.
Ring, O bells! sadly, slowly, For this midnight hour is wholly One of solemn retrospection, One of earnest self-inspection. Ere we enter on the new, The old year we must review; What the pleasure it has brought? What the lessons it has taught?
Standing silent by its bier, Thus we do review the year: Tears of sorrow for the dead, Wishes for the newly-wed; Songs we sang in idle mirth, Gifts we gave of little worth, Deeds we might, but have not done, Seeds of kindness never sown; Cheering words we left unsaid—Words that might have comforted; Castles that we built too high, Hopes that blossomed but to die, All are grouped around the bier Of the old departed year.
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