The Old Soldier's Story: Poems and Prose Sketches. Riley James Whitcomb

      The hour before the dawn!

      O ye who grope therein, with fear and dread

      And agony of soul, be comforted,

      Knowing, ere long, the darkness will be gone,

      And down its dusky aisles the light be shed;

      Therefore, in utter trust, fare on – fare on,

      This hour before the dawn!

      Good-by, Old Year!

      Good-by!

      We have been happy – you and I;

      We have been glad in many ways;

      And now, that you have come to die,

      Remembering our happy days,

      'Tis hard to say, "Good-by —

      Good-by, Old Year!

      Good-by!"

      Good-by, Old Year!

      Good-by!

      We have seen sorrow – you and I —

      Such hopeless sorrow, grief and care,

      That now, that you have come to die,

      Remembering our old despair,

      'Tis sweet to say, "Good-by —

      Good-by, Old Year!

      Good-by!"

      One said: "Here is my hand to lean upon

      As long as you may need it." And one said:

      "Believe me true to you till I am dead."

      And one, whose dainty way it was to fawn

      About my face, with mellow fingers drawn

      Most soothingly o'er brow and drooping head,

      Sighed tremulously: "Till my breath is fled

      Know I am faithful!" … Now, all these are gone

      And many like to them – and yet I make

      No bitter moan above their grassy graves —

      Alas! they are not dead for me to take

      Such sorry comfort! – but my heart behaves

      Most graciously, since one who never spake

      A vow is true to me for true love's sake.

      I am dazed and bewildered with living

      A life but an intricate skein

      Of hopes and despairs and thanksgiving

      Wound up and unravelled again —

      Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping,

      I am wondering ever the while

      At a something that smiles when I'm weeping,

      And a something that weeps when I smile.

      And I walk through the world as one dreaming

      Who knows not the night from the day,

      For I look on the stars that are gleaming,

      And lo, they have vanished away:

      And I look on the sweet-summer daylight,

      And e'en as I gaze it is fled,

      And, veiled in a cold, misty, gray light,

      The winter is there in its stead.

      I feel in my palms the warm fingers

      Of numberless friends – and I look,

      And lo, not a one of them lingers

      To give back the pleasure he took;

      And I lift my sad eyes to the faces

      All tenderly fixed on my own,

      But they wither away in grimaces

      That scorn me, and leave me alone.

      And I turn to the woman that told me

      Her love would live on until death —

      But her arms they no longer enfold me,

      Though barely the dew of her breath

      Is dry on the forehead so pallid

      That droops like the weariest thing

      O'er this most inharmonious ballad

      That ever a sorrow may sing.

      So I'm dazed and bewildered with living

      A life but an intricate skein

      Of hopes and despairs and thanksgiving

      Wound up and unravelled again —

      Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping,

      I am wondering ever the while

      At a something that smiles when I'm weeping,

      And a something that weeps when I smile.

      Dah's Brudder Sims! Dast slam yo' Bible shet

      An' lef' dat man alone – kase he's de boss

      Ob all de preachahs ev' I come across!

      Day's no twis' in dat gospil book, I bet,

      Ut Brudder Sims cain't splanify, an' set

      You' min' at eaze! W'at's Moses an' de Laws?

      W'at's fo'ty days an' nights ut Noey toss

      Aroun' de Dil-ooge? – W'at dem Chillen et

      De Lo'd rain down? W'at s'prise ole Joney so

      In dat whale's inna'ds? – W'at dat laddah mean

      Ut Jacop see? – an' wha' dat laddah go? —

      Who clim dat laddah? – Wha' dat laddah lean? —

      An' wha' dat laddah now? "Dast chalk yo' toe

      Wid Faith," sez Brudder Sims, "an' den you know!"

      Crouched at the corner of the street

      She sits all day, with face too white

      And hands too wasted to be sweet

      In anybody's sight.

      Her form is shrunken, and a pair

      Of crutches leaning at her side

      Are crossed like homely hands in prayer

      At quiet eventide.

      Her eyes – two lustrous, weary things —

      Have learned a look that ever aches,

      Despite the ready jinglings

      The passer's penny makes.

      And, noting this, I pause and muse

      If any precious promise touch

      This heart that has so much to lose

      If dreaming overmuch —

      And, in