The Marietta journal. [volume] (Marietta, Ga.) 1866-1909, 1871-10-20
ONE.
One hour of the new day G

One more car, with its sixty
soundless wheels--laden with re-
cords of human life, swept, with nc
ringing of bell, across the highways
and around the curves of Earth into
the depot of Eternity, whose keeper
is Jehovah
One.
| The little ormolu clock from its
festosned bracket above the mantle
heralds the tidings throughout the
silent room and the canary, asleep
in his ivory ring, leaps at once, full
throated and opcn-eyed, in iubilate
that foods the air with the tender
thrills of song.
One.
We turn off the gas-the bird
song ceases.
We draw aside the curtains, throw
back the shutters, open the windows,
and lean across the easement into
the night.
How silent it is And yet, the
silence, as we lean and listen, quick
ems with voices whose ebb and flow
made once the low dorons of our life
to bud and blossom as the rose :
make still, and will make forever,
the Alpha and Omega of loves
sweetest dream.
The moonlight lays its bands of
silver across the looseness of our
hair, and upon our temples, burden
ed with fever-throbs of fancy over
wrought fingers of the wind are
pressing, as the mothers lips,
through night SO long ago.
The wing Of sleep covers the city,
as the wings of bird her brood
but the lights of heaven shine
through, illumining cathedral spire
and cloister-wall--the high halls of
the rich and the low roofs Of the
poor; and, over all, is the of Gods
love; His protecting care and the
heaven of His holiness.
The "voiceIess night CREWS
voicsful.
A sound breaking from wine-red
lips, floats from the sweet soul of the
past to the fountains in the still
aisles of our being, and 10! a show
err of glittering drops over the blooms
SO dark with dust of dreary days,
and song through all the stiffness
like the singing of the sea.
An edor of violets from the wet
ways of an old, old woodland is fold
ed under the plumage of the night,
and the calm leaves of life's first
lilies seem rustling to the buds
storm shaken, but haply spared for
the sweetening of later days.
One
One voice above all others from
out the sepulchre of the past One
hand--tairer than all others-reach-
ing across the urn whose very rim
is under the ashes of q burnt out
hope
One face with its frame of cavern
locks, and lips like palest primrose
it's delicate cheeks, and lids with
fringe of amber-its brows where no
red blood is, and its temples with no
purple of living
One day discrOwned and desolate,
the life all its hours face to face with
the death of all its dreams, and some
thing sweeping through its stiffness
like sound of ships going down to
the black heart of the sea, and sound
of waves closed closely up above
and sealed with the seal of thunder.
One faith, fair and fruitful, that
not the laboring of years, nor men,
nor gods, nor doom, nor death can
alter!
One CLEAN of the far off silver of
repose yer all the waters of wait
ing.
1t is enough
We close the window and its shut
tiers, rearrange the damask and the
lace, put back the stand with its
basin and ladder of ivy, and just as
the clock is telling the passing OF
another hour, go silently to the
sweet heart of our slumber, and to a
sacred dream of-One
The ether day General Albert
ra.rUk