To

O year! while others crowned with pleasure sit
To watch thee slowly, darkly pass away,
To thee, so dying, I at least will say, —
O bitter year, that with remorseless feet
Didst tread down all whereby my life grew sweet, -
Didst thou not turn the golden into gray,
And snatch the very sunlight from my day?
Yet, now that thou art dying, it is meet

That ere thou goest quite, for one sweet thing,
One, only one, I give thee thanks, O year! —
The knowledge of a friend, now found so dear
That she a little can bring back the spring
To fields that seem forgotten of the light, —
A star to bless my moon-deserted night.