Thomas Hardy — A New Years Eve In War Time

I          Phantasmal fears,         And the flap of the flame,          And the throb of the clock,          And a loosened slate,          And the blind night's drone, Which tiredly the spectral pines intone! II And the blood in my ears Strumming always the same, And the gable-cock With its fitful grate, And myself, alone. III The twelfth hour nears Hand-hid, as in shame; I undo the lock, And listen, and wait For the Young Unknown. IV In the dark there careers - As if Death astride came To numb all with his knock - A horse at mad rate Over rut and stone. V No figure appears, No call of my name, No sound but "Tic-toc" Without check. Past the gate It clatters—is gone. VI What rider it bears There is none to proclaim; And the Old Year has struck, And, scarce animate, The New makes moan. VII         Maybe that "More Tears! -         More Famine and Flame -         More Severance and Shock!"         Is the order from Fate         That the Rider speeds on To pale Europe; and tiredly the pines intone. 1915-1916.