Poetry Subscriber Only

New Year’s Eve


  The old gravedigger is dying: Let’s be merry by his bed! He who laid to rest so many Is the next to join the dead. Come on, boys! Let’s toast the nation’s Eight hundred fifty years of yore, There’s no day that I don’t miss ’em, But only fools would hope for more.   […]

This content is for subscribers only. Please log in below, or sign up for a subscription here.