Is this poem really by Turlough O’Carolan? I don’t know – but as such it was passed to me, and I pass it on:
How beautiful the turning of the year!
A moment artificial yet profound:
Point upon an arbitrary chart
Passing like a breath upon the heart,
Yearning with anticipation wound,
New hope new harbored in old-fashioned cheer.
Even when the boundary line is clear,
We recognize the oneness of the ground.
Years, like circles, do not end or start
Except we lay across their truth our art,
Adjusting dates as they go round and round
Revolving to a tune long sung and dear.
And I love the concept. So, may we all lay our art across the truth of the years, o Readers – and mark them this way.