What awful gifts of rapture or despair
Hold thy closed hands, oh thou New Year, for me?
'Twixt thy far close and this thy January,
What mysteries shall be of love and prayer?
The heights of Life where I would walk are fair;
But in the valley where the damp mists be,
I may grope blindly on. Ah, let me see
The longed-for heights! Let me respire that air,
And know its healing, whatsoe'er await!
I do not pray for any dear delights,
Seeing my very days oft turn to nights;
Only I ask, whatever me wait,
Thy days, New Year, may witness me, though late,
If not upon, yet making for the heights.
Poems
A PRAYER FOR THE NEW YEAR
[Selected.]
From the January 1888 issue of The Christian Science Journal
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