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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509200" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Year's End</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE voices of the wind and wave<br>They sigh the Old Year's requiem;<br>The dead are calling from the grave —<br>Good friends, a little space I crave<br>To turn aside and think of them.<br>They were as even you and I<br>When you and I were young as they;<br>And yet they knew the way to die —<br>Come, think with me, and tell me why<br>It should be thus with hearts so gay.<br>Ah, blessed be the gracious God<br>Who, moulding us from clay and dew,<br>From morning dew and clay untrod,<br>So breathed Himself into the sod<br>That we, at best, grow Godlike, too.<br>For, treading pleasure underneath,<br>These glory-souls, our country's flower,<br>Arose responsive to that breath<br>And looked into the face of Death,<br>And did not tremble at his power.<br>Should it not make us sure and tough<br>As tested steel, and unafraid,<br>To feel, though Fate ride robber-rough,<br>That we are fashioned of the stuff<br>Whereof these heroes, too, were made?<br>Though they are dead, and o'er them bends<br>A people's soul in mourning mood,<br>Proud Honour at their grave attends:<br>Henceforth we are a nation, friends,<br>By right of sacrificial blood.<br>The care-free days of youth are gone;<br>What once we were no more we are;<br>And dead are all the dreams that shone<br>Ere we were bruised and hammered on<br>The ringing anvils of red war.<br>The Spirit of Immortal Times,<br>With lights that dazzle and entice,<br>Is vitalizing all earth's climes;<br>Once more in golden tones it chimes<br>The anthem of High Sacrifice.<br>And yet, though Fame be very fair,<br>And great the yearning and desire<br>Of hero-hearts to do and dare,<br>Behold, there stands an empty chair<br>Beside a cold and ashen fire!<br>Because, as even you and I,<br>They loved and were beloved, my friends,<br>Not all the glory-stars on high,<br>The splendid things for which men die,<br>Can for their passing make amends.<br>There is a house that waits in vain<br>To give them entrance at its door,<br>When frost's afoot or chilly rain;<br>There is a track across the plain<br>That they, alas, shall ride no more.<br>A whip, a saddle, and a spur!<br>(Ah, love-lit rides! The moon above,<br>Sweet scents around, soft winds astir!)<br>God give him rest! And what of her?<br>Why ask? Is love not always love?<br>Dear eyes that pain has made divine,<br>Sad eyes that burn with tears unshed,<br>Within whose depths are griefs that pine<br>And pilgrim thoughts that seek the shrine,<br>The grave of their beloved dead;<br>Dear eyes, dear hearts, dear folk, tear-blind,<br>Who greet each morn with grief anew,<br>Pale cheeks grown cold, and foreheads lined, —<br>Since God is good and Heaven is kind,<br>There shall be recompense for you!<br>The Old Year dies; and o'er the waves,<br>Wind-borne, there comes a requiem<br>Deep-chanted by a sea that laves<br>The shores they loved. Oh, may their graves<br>Give goodly rest and peace to them!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Roderic+Quinn">Roderic Quinn</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509200" data-title="The Year's End de Roderic Quinn" data-description="THE voices of the wind and wave
They sigh the Old Year's requiem;
The dead are calling from the grave —
Good friends, a little space I crave
To turn aside and think of them.
They were as even you and I
When you and I were young as they;
And yet ..."></div>
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