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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 51 pages of information about Debris.

* * * * *

ONLY.

Only a sentence earnest spoke,
  With never a thought to word it,
Fell like balm from the sea of calm,
  On the aching heart that heard it.

Only a glance, a scornful smile,
  A wavering purpose altered,
Goaded a hand the crime to do
  At which before it faltered.

Only a kiss, a love caress,
  Tender and trustful given,
Banished a cloud from brow of care,
  Made home a woman’s Heaven.

Only a secret, chance disclosed,
  Whence secret should be never,
A doubt crept into the heart that loved
  And its light went out forever.

Only a prayer, a wrong confessed,
  By suppliant lowly kneeling,
Opened the gate where the angels wait,
  Life’s Eden field revealing.

Careful then scatter the little things,
  They make life drear and lonely,
Or strew its way with flowers gay,—­
  We live by trifles only.

SOMEBODY’S BABY’S DEAD.

A hearse all draped in mourning,
  With white plumes overhead,
Bearing a little coffin—­
  Somebody’s baby’s dead.

Upon the velvet cover
  Some hand has placed a wreath,
White as the waxen features
  Of the baby that lies beneath.

Out in the graveyard making
  A rest for a shining head,
Somebody’s heart is breaking,
  Somebody’s baby’s dead.

Over a baby’s coffin,
  Heaping a mound of clay,
Somebody’s hopes are buried
  In that little grave to-day.

Somebody’s home is dreary,
  Somebody’s sunshine fled,
Somebody’s sad and weary,
  Somebody’s baby’s dead.

THE WITHERED ROSEBUD.

I gathered you, sweet little rosebud,
  With a dew crown encircling your head;
Now, out of the window I toss you,
  Shriveled, and scentless, and dead. 
You had opened to wondrous perfection,
  Had only my hand let you pass;
Yet here you have perished for water—­
  I forgot to put some in the glass.

Ah! poor little withered, dead rosebud,
  How many a weak human heart,
Too like you, has famishing perished,
  When life had but only a start? 
Yes, many a heart, little rosebud,
  Loving, and tender, and true,
For water has faded and withered,
  And died in its beauty like you,
Not because there was dearth of life’s fountain,
  Nor the blessing to all might not pass,
But because the strong hand which it clung to
  Forgot to put some in its glass.

MY SHIPS HAVE COME FROM SEA.

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