NEW YEAR’S EVE
By Julia Cooley Altrocchi
This is no wild, tempestuous hour
To meet with maddened trumpet-blare
And the delirious instruments of power,
This is an hour for prayer.
The imperial hour is here,
Wherein the temporal king lies dead,
Wrapped in his dreams, his mounting visions fled.
Stand, with bowed head, before his bier.
This is both burial and birth.
The prince is born, the destined child,
White-cradled, beautiful, on the still earth,
Let not the wanton world grow wild.
Blow not the brasses at the cradles head,
But heed the splendor sleeping here,
The sovereigns of hope and dread,
The year is dead----Long live the year!
Past Weeks Thoughts: