Wildenblue Farm Journal

The Old Year’s gone away to nothingness and night:

We cannot find him all the day nor hear him in the night:

He left no footstep, mark or place in either shade or sun:

The last year he’d a neighbour’s face, in this he’s known by none.

All nothing everywhere: mists we on mornings see

Have more of substance when they’re here

And more of form than he.

He was a friend by every fire, in every cot and hall-

A guest to every heart’s desire, and now he’s nought at all.

Old papers thrown away, old garments cast aside,

The talk of yesterday, are things identified;

But time once torn away no voices can recall

The eve of New Year’s Day left the Old Year lost to all.

~John Clare