  SOMETHING to show me—well, my lass, Make haste, I have no time to idle, These bright spring hours they seem to pass Like colts that fly from bit and bridle. A picture—well, if that is all, I can’t—my child don’t look so sorry, I’ll come and see, although I call The whole thing only waste and worry. But have your nonsense while you may, Your brushes, paints, and long-haired master, They’re pretty whims for you who see Such beauty in a canvas plaster. What’s in a picture? there’s but one Could win for me an hour’s gazing; It comes sometimes when day is done, And dusk falls on the cattle grazing. A big, old house that fronts the sea, The sunlight falling on the gables, The wood—what’s this? Why, can it be! Lass, you have neatly turned the tables. Know it? Ay, know each blade and stalk, Each sunny knoll, each shady cover, Why, every flower beside yon walk Has had in me a faithful lover! Know it? See yonder worn old step, The open door, the bench beside it, The rose-tree trained where it should creep— I almost see the hand that tied it. The sunny windows seem to throw On me a tender look of greeting, And in my heart awakes the glow Of other days so glad and fleeting. The dear old faces, one by one, Come out from shadows swiftly thronging, Dear picture of my boyhood’s home, My eyes are dim with love and longing! [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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