To the Pending Year

  Have I no weapon-word for thee--some message brief and fierce?
  (Have I fought out and done indeed the battle?) Is there no shot left,
  For all thy affectations, lisps, scorns, manifold silliness?
  Nor for myself--my own rebellious self in thee?

  Down, down, proud gorge!--though choking thee;
  Thy bearded throat and high-borne forehead to the gutter;
  Crouch low thy neck to eleemosynary gifts.