THE PICTURE ON THE WALL.
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But the hot and bitter tear-drops From our orphaned hearts arise,When the picture looks upon us With such tender, loving eyes—For Death has laid his fingers Coldly on those loving eyes.
How we linger there before it As our tears in silence fall,While the curtains waver sadly, And the shadows, like a pall,Fall about our father's picture As it hangs upon the wall.
