December by Edwin Arnold

In spangle of frost, and stars of snow,
Unto his end the Year doth wend;
And sad for some the days did go,
And glad for some were beginning and end;
But sad or glad, grieve not for his death,
Mournfully counting your measures of breath;
You that, before the worlds began,
Were seed of woman and surety of man;
You that are older than Aldebaran!
It was but a whirl round about the sun,
A silver dance of the planets done,
A step in the Infinite Minuet
Which the great stars pace to a music set
By Life Immortal and Love Divine
Which sounds, in your span of threescore and ten,
One chord of the Harmony, fair and fine,
Of What did make you women and men.
In spangle of frost, and stars of snow
Sad or glad—let the Old Year go!