There are no summer flowers
To deck the Old Year's bier,
Of all he gave so lavishly,
Not one remaineth here.
There are no leaves above us,
To serve for funeral pall,
Not one is left to cover him,
They long ago did fall.
There are no gentle breezes,
To waft his latest sighs.
Alone, by all forgotten,
'Tis thus the Old Year dies.
Ah! no, by some remembered;
Sadly his latest hours
Are watched by those who love him;
There is no need for flowers,
To show him unforgotten;
While sadly fall our tears,
As, with the peal of midnight,
He joins the vanished years.
