Leaves of Grass

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.