Poems (Clark)/A Picture
For works with similar titles, see A Picture.
A PICTURE
A fair, low brow where touch of angels' fingers Seemed to have smoothed all trace of care away;And eyes where tender smiles were ever lurking, Telling sweet tales of love's indwelling sway.
Hair whose brown waves held flecks of golden brightness As though the sunbeams loved to nestle there;And lips whose curves were wrought by gentle speaking Of loving thoughts and holy words of prayer.
Hands whose deft touch sought ever kindly uses, Smoothing rough ways for tender feet to tread,-Raising the grief-bowed, pointing ever upward To where Heaven's brightness down life's path is shed.
Such was my friend, and I, who knew her sweetness, The glad pure kindness of her daily life,The saintly beauty that made sacred to her The precious names of mother and of wife.
Best know how much of pain the words brought to me, When first I read, "Your friend has passed away,"And knew God's tender angels safe had led her To that bright home where love alone holds sway.
Years have gone by, and still I miss her presence, Her loving sympathy in joy and pain;And day by day the tender hope grows sweeter,— Sometime my friend and I shall meet again.