English poem
The New Year 1904
by Clarence Bicknell (1842–1918)
A year without a sorrow Or a cross, Or dread of any morrow Bringing loss. Could it be?
A year of light, with shadow Scarcely one? Of fruits in every meadow, Thistles none. Will it be?
A year of many roses And few thorns; A year that brighter closes Than it dawns. May it be!
A year of God’s unfolding Wider wings; A year of man’s beholding Better things. Must it be!