Another year hangs on the line,
The sagging line of worn-out years;
A thousand there, and twenty nine
Since One we recognise Divine
Removed our human fears.
What matters one, what matters ten,
What matters yet a hundred more?
If men still hate their brother men
As stupidly as they did then,
Who bothers with the mounting score?
The line is long, the garments wave,
The strung-out rags of earthly time.
What beggars may their shivers save
With these cast-offs before the grave?
What idiots sublime?
It may be that the line, (who knows?)
Is a vast circle without end.
And years we greet as new disclose
That they are quite as old as those
We doff and never think to mend!
31. 12. 29