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Title: A Picture
Author: Jared Barhite [
More Titles by Barhite]
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.
[The end]
Jared Barhite's poem: Picture
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