The Dying Year
The year has been a tedious one—
A weary round of toil and sorrow,
And, since it now at last is gone,
We say farewell and hail the morrow.
Yet o’er the wreck which time has wrought
A sweet, consoling ray is shimmered—
The one but compensating thought
That literary life has glimmered.
Struggling with hunger and with cold
The world contemptuously beheld 'er;
The little thing was one year old—
But who’d have cared had she been elder?
