<h2><SPAN name="page94"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>DECEMBER</h2>
<p class="poetry">Upon December’s windy portico<br/>
The Old Year stood, and looked out where the sun<br/>
Went wading down the West, through drifting clouds.<br/>
‘I, too, shall sink full soon to rest,’ he sighed,<br/>
‘And follow where my children’s feet have trod;<br/>
Brave January, beauteous May and June,<br/>
My lovely daughters, and my valiant sons,<br/>
All, all save one, have left me for that bourne<br/>
Men call the Past. It seems but yesterday<br/>
I saw fair August, laughing with the Sea,<br/>
Snaring the Earth with her seductive wiles,<br/>
And making conquest, even of the Sun.<br/>
Yet has she gone, and left me here to mourn.’<br/>
Then spake December, from an open door:<br/>
‘Father, the night grows cold; come in and rest.<br/>
Sit with me here beside this glowing grate;<br/>
I have not left thee; thou art not alone;<br/>
<SPAN name="page95"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>My house
is thine; all warm with love and light,<br/>
And bright with holly and with cedar sweet.<br/>
My stalwart arm is thine to lean upon;<br/>
The feast is spread, I only wait for thee;<br/>
God smiles upon thy dead, smile thou on me.’<br/>
Then through the open door the Old Year passed<br/>
And darkness settled on the outer world.</p>
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