MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR
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es, the Year is growing old,And his eye is pale and bleared!Death, with frosty hand and cold,Plucks the old man by the beard,Sorely, sorely! The leaves are falling, falling,Solemnly and slow;Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,It is a sound of woe,A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain passesThe winds, like anthems, roll;They are chanting solemn masses,Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,Pray, pray!" And the hooded clouds, like friars,Tell their beads in drops of rain,And patter their doleful prayers;But their prayers are all in vain,All in vain! There he stands in the foul weather,The foolish, fond Old Year,Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,Like weak, despised Lear,A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day,Bids the old man rejoice!His joy! his last! O, the man grayLoveth that ever-soft voice,Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,To the voice gentle and lowOf the soft air, like a daughter's breath,"Pray do not mock me so!Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead;Cold in his arms it lies;No stain from its breath is spreadOver the glassy skies,No mist or stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth,And the forests utter a moan,Like the voice of one who criethIn the wilderness alone,"Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar,Gathering and sounding on,The storm-wind from Labrador,The wind Euroclydon,The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forestSweep the red leaves away!Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,O Soul! could thus decay,And be swept away!For there shall come a mightier blast,There shall be a darker day; And the stars, from heaven down-castLike red leaves be swept away!Kyrie, eleyson!Christe, eleyson! **********
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