Midnight Mass for the Dying Year Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Yes, the Year is growing old,
        And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
        Plucks the old man by the beard,
                Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
        Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
        It is a sound of woe,
                A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain passes
        The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
        Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
                Pray, pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
        Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
        But their prayers are all in vain,
                All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,
        The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
        Like weak, despised Lear,
                A king, a king!