  I sat by the farm-house window When the winter's sun was low, And looked on the clear horizon O'er fields white-crested with snow. A tree with its arms outstretching, Was limned on the distant sky, And my fancy saw a picture Such as gold can never buy. Perhaps to no other vision Could the scene be just the same, For blendings in the picture Had on me a special claim. My mother oft had looked upon That fair picture in the west, While sitting in that self-same chair, Ere she laid her down to rest. This gave a charm to the picture Of especial power to me, And my vision saw a painting That none else on earth could see. I can close my eyes at twilight Though now many miles away, And see that lovely horizon At close of expiring day. I can see the true formation Of each rock and tree and field, In a perfect panorama That time has not yet concealed. It is not an idle fancy For me now to paint the scene, Since my mother's form has faded From the place where she has been. I know it affords me comfort To recall from day to day, That scene from the farm-house window, Since my mother passed away. |
|
