DYING YEAR.

O year wherein all sorrows have been crowded,
   O year more solemn than all other years,
O year whose skies from first to last were clouded
   O year adrip with salt and bitter tears,
You die! and I could shout aloud for gladness,
   To see you die, cold 1875.
It is the sole emotion, save of sadness,
   My heart has felt since first you were alive.

The very moment that you sprang to being,
   You seemed to owe me bitterness and spite.
And now I'm filled with mirth and laughter seeing
   How low you lie, and in such humbled plight.
From January until late December,
   Through all the months of wind, and storm and rain,
You gave me little that I can remember
   With any feeling but regret and pain.

You made me weep, till all my soul was flooded,
   But sent new hopes, ere reason quite was lost.
And these you left me till they sweetly budded,
   And then you nipped them with a killing frost.
You would not even let me have a summer,
   But sent cold rains to fill it full of gloom.
Whoe'er, whate'er, may be this unknown comer,
   I shall rejoice to see you in your tomb.

How cold you are, and how you shake, and shiver,
   I love that wind, that howls about your bed.
I love to see your palsied limbs a-quiver!
   And know so soon you will be cold and dead.
O murderer, who slew my friends and left me,
   Liar, who promised, but who never gave,
Thief, who of happiness and hope bereft me,
  I spit upon your coffin and your grave.

Maurine by Ella Wheeler
Milwaukee: Cramer, Aikens & Cramer, 1876.


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