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Dec. 30-31. 1860
Quite a party indoors: Miss Vallant, Sue, John, Sam, Bob and our household. Monday Dec. 31st the old year is spent.
Tis a time for memory and for tears.
Within the deep still chambers of the heart
a spectre dim whose tones are like
the wizard voice of time heard from the tomb of ages
points its cold and solemn finger to
the beautiful and holy visions that have passed away
and left no shadow of their loveliness on the dead wish of life.
That spectre lifts the coffin lid of Hope and Joy and Love
and bending sorrowfully above the pale sweet forms that slumbers there
scattered dead flowers over what has passed to nothingness.
The year has gone and with it many a glorious throng of happy dreams.
Its mark is on each brow; its shadow in each heart.
Within the deep still chambers of the heart
a spectre dim whose tones are like
the wizard voice of time heard from the tomb of ages
points its cold and solemn finger to
the beautiful and holy visions that have passed away
and left no shadow of their loveliness on the dead wish of life.
That spectre lifts the coffin lid of Hope and Joy and Love
and bending sorrowfully above the pale sweet forms that slumbers there
scattered dead flowers over what has passed to nothingness.
The year has gone and with it many a glorious throng of happy dreams.
Its mark is on each brow; its shadow in each heart.
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