Explore "The Death of the Old Year" by George MacDonald on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The weary Old Year is dead at last; / His corpse 'mid the ruins of Time is cast, / Where the mouldering wrecks of lost Thought lie, / And the rich-hued blossoms of Passion die / To a withering grass that droops o'er his grave, / The shadowy Titan's refuge cave.
Strange lights from pale moony Memory lie / On the weedy columns beneath its eye; / And strange is the sound of the ghostlike breeze, / In the lingering leaves on the skeleton trees; / And strange is the sound of the falling shower, / When the clouds of dead pain o'er the spirit lower; / Unheard in the home he inhabiteth, / The land where all lost things are gathered by Death.