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A FANTASY.
Till the way grows dark before me, and I grow impatient-hearted,
Do I raise my eyes imploring to the picture on the wall,
Do I raise my eyes imploring to the picture on the wall,
With a fond instinctive pleading,—with a child's entire confiding
In the mother whose affection it has learned to trust and prize,
Till a gentle resignation o'er my soul comes softly gliding,
Born of the enduring patience shining in those soft brown eyes.
In the mother whose affection it has learned to trust and prize,
Till a gentle resignation o'er my soul comes softly gliding,
Born of the enduring patience shining in those soft brown eyes.
And as o'er my troubled spirit flow the waves of holier feeling,
Till rebellious tears no longer in the glimmering firelight shine,
Then the magic picture slowly comes descending from the ceiling,
Till the face is close beside me, and the eyes look into mine.
Till rebellious tears no longer in the glimmering firelight shine,
Then the magic picture slowly comes descending from the ceiling,
Till the face is close beside me, and the eyes look into mine.
Lightly on my lifted forehead falls the soft hand's benediction,
