WE stand above the abyss; beneath our feet br Around and onward infinite darkness rolls. br The sky above is black; the watch-bell tolls br The dying year. While slow in silent feet br Pale ghosts come towards us from the ice-locked street br 5 br Of thought's great city; faces young and old, br Eyes sunken, features set and deathly cold br And noiseless bear the dead year's winding-sheet. br But lo! where now we stand is worn with tread br Of millions; in the darkness feel, the ground br 10 br Is dust of powdered bones; sure, on this peak br The years have died, and millions of the dead br Have waited vainly through the gloom profound, br For dawn of day or trumpet-voice to speak.