Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/80

Rh

day declines, the hours draw near Of balmy and refreshing sleep; The sun, the last sun of the year, Has sunk beneath the waveless deep. Beside the hearth I sit alone, While shadows strange before me pass, The past and present dimly shown As in a wizard's magic glass. Long, long the flame arrests my sight, Waving capricious, then the hand That counts upon the dial white Time's footfall, silent, calm and grand. Another step, another hour, And then the old year shall be dead; What mortal can oppose the power That crumbles worlds beneath its tread? And why should I pursue that march? Can I retard its even course? The fallen pillar, mouldering arch, Attest its overwhelming force.