PICTURES OF MEMORY
Pictures Of Memory
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall.
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all:
Not for its gnarled oaks olden.
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below.
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant hedge.
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their shining edge;
Not for the vines on the upland
Where the bright red berries be.
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,
It seemeth the best to me.
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep—
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle.
Free as the winds that blow.
We roved there the beautiful summers.
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face:
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the old dim forest
Seemeth the best of all.