THE PARTING OF THE YEARS by Mary A. Stewart

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Tuesday, January 6, 1885

FromAdvent Review and Sabbath Herald, Vol. 62, No. 1

THE PARTING OF THE YEARS.

By Mary A. Stewart

BY MARY A. STEWART.

Two Years stand face to face, The Old Year and the New; A gulf is fixed between, And neither may pass through; But Memory spans the chasm wide, And they clasp hands as they divide.

The Old Year and the New stand face to face; but between them lies a gulf that neither may pass. Regretfully the Old Year feels his youth is gone; and as he lingers yet, so loth to leave the mirth and pleasure that would not let him realize he was growing old, Memory spans the chasm; and over the frail but firm structure, the two Years clasp hands for one brief moment, ere they part forever.

Just one moment they stand there, the New Year scanning the face of the Old, as if to find a key to the mysteries of the future; but whatever there may have been of joy or sorrow in the Old Year's life, it is locked within his heart, and Memory will not reveal her hidden things at the New Year's bidding.

And now they part. The New Year goes to seek his earth home, to give to every life its measure of grief or joy. The joy he gives out gladly; but the sorrow—ah! it is not his to measure this. A mightier Hand has mixed the cup, and he must deal it out.

Sad Old Year! With hands outstretched toward the New, he steps back from the chasm, and enters the land where Memory has her home. She leads him on, over beautiful hills and through somber valleys; and as they go, he seems to hear voices familiar, and see forms flitting here and there among the trees. He turns to speak, or give them friendly greeting, but they are not there,—'twas only a fantasy of his bewildered brain. Now he seems borne along by invisible hands to a home of plenty. Strangely familiar is all around him; and as he raises his hand to bless the happy circle, it vanishes, and he is alone with Memory.

Thus it is he journeys on, half awake, half dreaming, and all bewildered, peopling the sunlit heights and the dark, damp valleys with the forms he once loved and cherished.

Farther and farther into the heart of the forest he goes. One by one the faces disappear, and the events of his earth-life are left behind. His feeble limbs scarce bear the weight of his wasted form. He reels and staggers on the borders of this enchanted land; but he cannot stop. His sight fails; his ears refuse to hear the sounds he loves so well. Poor, lone Year, so art thou passing away forever from our view.

The border is reached. Memory may no longer guide his trembling footsteps. Alone, sad, weak, and nerveless, he sinks into his grave in the dreary land of forgetfulness.