midnight
Lines , Written on the Year 1852 . Weary and sad I sit alone , The storm-god whistles shrill and high , And piles of sombre clouds are thrown O'er the blue curtains of the sky . Mournful I sit , for one by one Time 's golden sands are ebbing fast ; Whispering in low sepulchral tones , The next , perchance , may be the last . 'T is midnight 's deep and solemn hour , When visionary forms appear , And shed their strange , mysterious power O'er the departure of the year . The charnel house is opened wide , And thither 's borne with brief adieu , And slumbering eyes laid beside Eighteen hundred fifty-two . Now memory wakes her silent string , And holds her umpire in the brain ; And brings as she alone can bring , The image of the past again . Her golden key , with using bright , Unlocks the chambers of the soul , And holds to reason 's steady light The secret records of her scroll .