Poetry Friday: New Year's Morning by Helen Hunt Jackson

Here's a marvelous poem from Helen Hunt Jackson who was born in 1830 in my home state* of Massachusetts. She was a poet, writer, and activist for Indigenous Americans. She often published anonymously under the names H.H., Rip van Winkle, or Saxe Holm. In 1985, a hundred years after her death, she was inducted into the Colorado Women's Hall of Fame. (Well, it takes us a while to catch up with women and their accomplishments, doesn't it?) 

I especially love these lines: 

The Old Year's heart all weary grew,
But said: "The New Year rest has brought."
The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but, trusting, said:
"The blossoms of the New Year's crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead."

May we go into 2026 trusting in the new year's crown, that it will bloom from the ashes of 2025. 

New Year's Morning
by Helen Hunt Jackson

Only a night from old to new!
Only a night, and so much wrought!
The Old Year's heart all weary grew,
But said: "The New Year rest has brought."
The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but, trusting, said:
"The blossoms of the New Year's crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead."
The Old Year's heart was full of greed;
With selfishness it longed and ached,
And cried: "I have not half I need.
My thirst is bitter and unslaked.
But to the New Year's generous hand
All gifts in plenty shall return;
True love it shall understand;
By all my failures it shall learn.
I have been reckless; it shall be
Quiet and calm and pure of life.
I was a slave; it shall go free,
And find sweet peace where I leave strife."
Only a night from old to new!
Never a night such changes brought.
The Old Year had its work to do;
No New Year miracles are wrought.

Always a night from old to new!
Night and the healing balm of sleep!
Each morn is New Year's morn come true,
Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make
Confession and resolve and prayer;
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old come true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~

Catherine Flynn has the round-up at Reading to the Core.

* Sort of. We moved when I was three years old. I've lived everywhere from Alaska to Florida to the midwest but I still love that I was born on Cape Cod. When I close my eyes and think of them, I can still hear my grandparents' New England accents. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.