The Picture On The Wall
Poem By Henry Clay Work
'Tis noon of night; the sable clouds,
Hang weeping in the sky;
Alone I sit, where fancies flit
Like spectral shadows by.
Me thinks I see familiar forms,
And on before them all--
So fair, so calm, so wondrous like, wondrous like
The picture on the wall.
Among the brave and loyal,
How many lov'd ones fall!
Whose friends bereft,
Have only left, only left
A picture on the wall.
I hear the press of eager feet,
Upon my parlor floor;
A moment, and my willing arms
Enclasp my boy once more.
I feel his warm breath on my cheek,
But when his name I call
A shadowy finger points to me, points me to
His picture on the wall.
The moon's full radiance struggles through,
And lights my room once more;
And thus shall heav'n O heart of mine,
Thy seeming loss restore.
Its light shall gild the present gloom,
And sweeter spells enthral,
Than that which binds me to this sweet, to this sweet
True picture on the wall.