'Tis noon of night; the sable clouds, <br />Hang weeping in the sky; <br />Alone I sit, where fancies flit <br />Like spectral shadows by. <br />Me thinks I see familiar forms, <br />And on before them all-- <br />So fair, so calm, so wondrous like, wondrous like <br />The picture on the wall. <br /> <br />Among the brave and loyal, <br />How many lov'd ones fall! <br />Whose friends bereft, <br />Have only left, only left <br />A picture on the wall. <br /> <br />I hear the press of eager feet, <br />Upon my parlor floor; <br />A moment, and my willing arms <br />Enclasp my boy once more. <br />I feel his warm breath on my cheek, <br />But when his name I call <br />A shadowy finger points to me, points me to <br />His picture on the wall. <br /> <br />The moon's full radiance struggles through, <br />And lights my room once more; <br />And thus shall heav'n O heart of mine, <br />Thy seeming loss restore. <br />Its light shall gild the present gloom, <br />And sweeter spells enthral, <br />Than that which binds me to this sweet, to this sweet <br />True picture on the wall.<br /><br />Henry Clay Work<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-picture-on-the-wall/
