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.