Among the beautiful pictures <br />That hang on Memory's wall, <br />Is one of a dim old forest, <br />That seemeth best of all; <br />Not for its gnarled oaks olden, <br />Dark with the mistletoe: <br />Not for the violets golden <br />That sprinkle the vale below; <br />Not for the milk-white lilies. <br />That lean from the fragrant ledge, <br />Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, <br />And stealing their golden edge; <br />Not for the vines on the upland, <br />Where the bright red berries rest, <br />Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, <br />It seemeth to me the best, <br /> <br />I once had a little brother <br />With eyes that were dark and deep; <br />In the lap of that dim old forest <br />He lid It in peace asleep; <br />Light as the down of the thistle, <br />Free as the winds that blow, <br />We roved there the beautiful summers, <br />The summers of long ago; <br />But his feet on the hills grew weary, <br />And, one of the autumn eves, <br />I made for my little brother <br />A bed of the yellow leaves. <br /> <br />Sweetly his pale arms folded <br />My neck in a meek embrace, <br />As the light of immortal beauty <br />Silently covered his face; <br />And when the arrows of sunset <br />Lodged in the tree-tops bright, <br />He fell, in his saint-like beauty, <br />Asleep by the gates of light. <br /> <br />Therefore, of all the pictures <br />That hang on Memory's wall, <br />The one of the dun old forest <br />Seemeth the best of all.<br /><br />Alice Cary<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/among-the-beautiful-pictures/
