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 hedge, Coqueting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their shining edge; Not for the vines on the upland Where the bright red berries be, Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, It seemeth the best to me. 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 old dim forest Seemeth the best of all.