Upon the stroke of midnight’s hollow bell,
The weary year resigns its heavy crown,
To cast away the shadows that befell
And lay the tattered robes of winter down.
The Janus-gate swings wide upon the hinge,
With one face turned to griefs we leave behind,
The other touched with morning's golden tinge,
To seek the treasures we have yet to find.
Though time doth reap the beauty of the field,
And etch its lines upon the mortal brow,
To hope’s eternal spring we chose to yield,
And make our peace with this unfolding "now."
So let the old year vanish like a breath,
As life arrives to conquer winter’s death.

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