Pictures of Memory

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 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 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.