OCR Text |
Show ON MEMORY'S WALL. By Alice Cary. Of all 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 sparkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coqueting all day with the sunbeams' And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland Where the bright red berries rest; Not the pink, nor the pale sweet cowslips, It seemed to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep - In the lap of that golden forest He lieth in peace asleep; Light as the down on 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 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 sunlight 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 dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. |