Century Magazine/Volume 47/Issue 3/The Masquerade of Time

I the New Year whisper, passing by, "I am the Old Year, and did never die.

"As phenix bird, that from the sunset springs, Next in the East replumes his wondrous wings,

"As dewdrop trembling in the morning flower, Exhaled ere noon, returns at evening hour,

"So never lost was I, though steeple chime Hurl out my knell—for I, behold, am Time!

"The Years but lend so many a quaint disguise Wherein I masquerade to mortal eyes."