The Poetry Corner

The New Year

By George MacDonald

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.