Poems (Hoffman)/A Picture
For works with similar titles, see A Picture.
A PICTURE.
There are many beautiful pictures Hanging in memory's hall,Pictures of hills and valleys, Houses and steeples tall;Pictures of sunlight and shadow, Of faces grave and gay,And some that rise from the misty past Seem to be far away;But one more beautiful than the rest Hangeth apart alone;And the thoughts it awakens are unexpressed, 'Tis a picture of my home.'Tis a little cottage on a hill Where the golden sunbeams play,While the little lambs o'er the meadow run And frolic the livelong day.The creek o'er the pebbles flows along Past fields of waving grain;And the finches and warblers vie in song, In one melodious strain.The old orchard stands in conscious pride, Weighed down with ripening fruit;And the oriole fills the scented air With his song like a clear-voiced flute;But 'tis not for these that I love it best, There are many scenes as fair;But 'tis for the friends so tried and true, For the loving hearts that are there.I look and I see my mother, Down the grassy hill-slope walk;Leading the little brother, Who is just beginning to talk.I can almost hear his prattle As he laughs in childish joy; O, how I wish I could see you, Our dear little blue-eyed boy!I can see my little sister, Who is wise beyond her years;How I wish she could ever be free as now From all life's cares and fears.And all of the other dear ones, I can see them all quite well;Without them the beautiful picture Would lose its magic spell.O, what are earth's fading pictures, Or what is the painter's art,Compared with the pictures of memory Engraven on the heart?