Читать книгу Poems - Julia C. R. Dorr - Страница 9

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Not for its sunsets burning clear and low, Its purple splendors on the eastern hills, Bless I the Year that now makes haste to go While sad Earth listens for its dying thrills.

Not that its days were sweet with sun and showers; Its summer nights all luminous with stars: Not that its vales were studded thick with flowers; Not that its mountains pierced the azure bars;

Not that from our dear land, by slow degrees, Some mists of error it hath blown away; Not for its noble deeds—ah! not for these— Fain would I twine this wreath of song to-day.

But for one gift that it has brought to me My grateful heart would crown the dying Year: Because, O best-beloved, it gave me thee, I drop this garland on the passing bier!