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.
Alice Cary.
No comments:
Post a Comment