The last of eighteen sixty-three is passing away as I write.
. . . Every New Year since I was in my teens, I have sought a quiet spot where
I could whisper to myself Tennyson's “Death of the Old Year,” and even this
bitter cold night I steal into my freezing, fireless little room, en robe de
nuit, to keep up my old habit while the others sleep. . . .
“Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.”
No! Go and welcome! Bring Peace and brighter days, O dawning
New Year. Die, faster and faster, Old One; I count your remaining moments with
almost savage glee.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 424
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