The New Year

A poem 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.

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