Prologue

"What is the use of it?" the Poet demanded peevishly--it was New Year's Day in the morning. "People don't read my poetry when I have gone to the trouble of writing it!"

"The more shame to them," said his wife.

"But, my dear, you know you never read it yourself."

"Oh, that is altogether different. Besides you are improving, are you not?" She asked it a trifle anxiously, but the question set him off at once.

"In twenty years' time--" he began eagerly.

"--The boy will be at college." She laid down her needle and embroidery and, gazing into the fire, let her hands lie idle in her lap.

"You might think of me."

"I thought," she answered, "you were doing that."

"Of yourself, then."

"In twenty years' time--" She broke off with the faintest possible sigh.

The Poet jumped up and went to his writing-desk. "That reminds me," he said, and produced a folded scrap of paper. "I wrote it last night. It's a sort of a little New Year's present--you need not read it, you know."

"But I will": and she took the paper and read--

UPON NEW YEAR'S EVE

     Now winds of winter glue
        Their tears upon the thorn,
     And earth has voices few,
        And those forlorn.
     And 'tis our solemn night
        When maidens sand the porch,
     And play at Jack's Alight
        With burning torch,
     Or cards, or Kiss i' the Ring--
        While ashen faggots blaze,
     And late wassailers sing
        In miry ways.
     Then, dear my wife, be blithe
        To bid the New Year hail
     And welcome--plough, drill, scythe,
        And jolly flail.
     For though the snows he'll shake
        Of winter from his head,
     To settle, flake by flake,
        On ours instead;
     Yet we be wreathed green
        Beyond his blight or chill,
     Who kissed at seventeen
        And worship still.
     We know not what he'll bring:
        But this we know to-night--
     He doth prepare the Spring
        For our delight.
     With birds he'll comfort us,
        With blossoms, balms, and bees,
     With brooks, and odorous
        Wild breath o' the breeze.
     Come then, O festal prime!
        With sweets thy bosom fill,
     And dance it, dripping thyme,
        On Lantick hill.
     West wind, awake! and comb
        Our garden, blade from blade--
     We, in our little home,
        Sit unafraid.
--"Why, I quite like it!" said she.