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 lead from the fragrant hedge,
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 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.
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 dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.