Classic and Contemporary Poetry
OLD PICTURES, by PHOEBE CARY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Old pictures, faded long, to-night Last Line: Set in their midst, a child again! Subject(s): Nostalgia | ||||||||
OLD pictures, faded long, to-night Come out revealed by memory's gleam; And years of checkered dark and light Vanish behind me like a dream. I see the cottage, brown and low, The rustic porch, the roof-tree's shade, And all the place where long ago A group of happy children played. I see the brother, bravest, best, The prompt to act, the bold to speak; The baby, dear and honored guest! The timid sister, shy and meek. I see her loving face who oft Watched, that their slumbers might be sweet; And his whose dear hand made so soft The path for all their tender feet. I see, far off, the woods whose screen Bounded the little world we knew; And near, in fairy rings of green, The grass that round the door-stones grew. I watch at morn the oxen come, And bow their meek necks to the yoke; Or stand at noontide, patient, dumb, In the great shadow of the oak. The barn with crowded mows of hay, And roof upheld by golden sheaves; Its rows of doves, at close of day, Cooing together on the eaves. I see, above the garden-beds, The bee at work with laden wing; The dandelions' yellow heads Crowding about the orchard spring; The little, sweet-voiced, homely thrush; The field-lark, with her speckled breast; The finches in the currant-bush; And where the bluebirds hid their nest. I see the comely apple-trees, In spring, a-blush with blossoms sweet; Or, bending with the autumn breeze, Shake down their ripe fruits at our feet. I see, when hurtling through the air The arrows of the winter fly, And all the frozen earth lies bare, A group about the hearth draw nigh, Of little ones that never tire Of stories told and told again; I see the pictures in the fire, The firelight pictures in the pane. I almost feel the stir and buzz Of day; the evening's holy calm; Yea, all that made me what I was, And helped to make me what I am. Then lo! it dies, as died our youth; And things so strange about me seem, I know not what should be the truth, Nor whether I would wake or dream. I have not found to-day so vain, Nor yesterday so fair and good, That I would have my life again, And live it over if I could. Not every hope for me has proved A house on weak foundation built; I have not seen the feet I loved Caught in the awful snares of guilt. But when I see the paths so hard Kept soft and smooth in days gone by; The lives that years have made or marred, Out of my loneliness I cry: Oh, for the friends that made so bright The days, alas! too soon to wane! Oh, but to be one hour to-night Set in their midst, a child again! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BELL FROM EUROPE by WELDON KEES THE STONE TABLE by GALWAY KINNELL LETTER TO MAXINE SULLIVAN by HAYDEN CARRUTH HANGING THE BLUE NUNS; FOR WARREN CARRIER by MADELINE DEFREES OF POLITICS, & ART by NORMAN DUBIE MY SISTER LIKED THE POSTCARD OF SNOW by ANSELM HOLLO THE PLAYER PIANO by RANDALL JARRELL A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND by PHOEBE CARY |
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