Poems (Cary)/Pictures of Memory

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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.
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