Poem - Reynold 'Cleve' Potter

New Year 1918
By Reynold 'Cleve' Potter

1 January 1918, Belgium

The Year is dead, the grim, gaunt year
He closed his eyes last night
When all the world was cold and still
And decked in robes of white.
Dull, drear Old Year
You disappear,
Nor could I wish you stay.
So sad you've been
That few, I ween,
Will weep for you today.

Hard, harsh Old Year we're glad you're dead,
Self-drowned in human blood.
Our dearest friends you sacrificed
To swell that crimson flood.
Each cheerless hour.
That was you're dower:
Strife, sorrow, stress and tear
And now you're gone,
And none will mourn
Beside your bier.

Cold, cruel year, you killed my hopes,
And took away my dreams.
You showed me things just as they are,
Not as in youth they seem.
You showed me war,
Hell, horror, more,
With misery deep to crown.
The cup of pain
You made me drain.
You broke my idol down.

Yet, sad old year, was it your fault
That this old world went mad?
You, surely, are not all to blame
That man is wholly bad.
You sent the showers
And gave the flowers,
Where would we let them grow?
Perchance you wept
When virtue slept
And vice was worshipped so.

Old Year, you showed how grand, how great,
A mother's love can be,
Through all your mirthless moments proved
A sister's constancy.
Yes, Old Year, you
Left me the true
And took the insecure.
So as a friend
I'll mourn your end.
Goodbye, goodbye, Old Year.