The New Year

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The New Year

Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come;

Make poor the body, but make rich the heart:

What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home,

Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!

Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames,

Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low⁠—

Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames

When joyous in death’s harvest-home we go.