Pictures of Memory

Alice Cary (1820–1871)

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.