Among the beautiful pictures
Among
the beautiful pictures
That hang on the 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 ledge,
Coquetting
all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not
for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor
the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
I
once had a little brother
With the eyes that were dark and deep;
In
the lap of that dim old 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 treetops bright,
He
fell, in his saintlike beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore,
of all the pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall,
The
one of the dim forest
Seemeth
the best of all.
Alice Cary
/Home/
Fantasy Art/
Games/
Photography/Comedy/Music/Photo Album/Poetry/Quotes/Recipes/Short Stories/Reviews/
Email/
