Tuesday, May 14, 2013


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.
            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 dim old forest
            Seemeth the best of all.
Alice  Cary.

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