The New Year.
Hush thy breathing for a minute,
Tell me, can’st thou hear
Music with a magic in it,
Like a silver-throated linnet,
Singing at thine ear ?
’Tis the new-born year awaking
Every movement harmony,
Like a wave melodious breaking,
Or long she-oak tassels making
For the great Creator stringeth,
On the thread of Time,
Years, like pearls, and each one ringeth
Musical, then pendent swingeth,
Rounded in a chime.
Close thine eyes to earthly seeming,
Tell me, can’st thou see
One with white robes softly gleaming,
Stepping, from her sisters dreaming,
Out to welcome thee ?
’Tis the sweet New Year arising,
Stretching forth her hand,
Fresh from God, to thee devising
Gifts well worthy of thy prizing
Could’st thou understand.
For a mighty Monarch sendeth
This ambassador to thee,
From her open palm she lendeth
To thy life as she descendeth
Keep this pearl from stain or breaking
That it still may ring
Musical, when God is making
Of thy years a necklet, taking
Only such as sing.
Take this sweet New Year, and greet her
With an earnest hand,
That, when fled, she may be sweeter,
And thou need’st not fear to meet her
In her native land.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, pages 16-18