| William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Massachusetts Poets. 1922. |
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| Unfading Pictures |
| | | Louella C. Poole |
| | | | | (“The air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers…. The old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my aunt’s inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries, the old china … and, wonderfully out of keeping with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything.”–“David Copperfield,” Chapter XIII.) |
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| HOW many are the scenes he limned, | |
| With artist strokes, clear-cut and free— | |
| Our Dickens; time shall not efface | |
| Their charm, and they will ever grace | |
| The halls of memory. | 5 |
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| Oft and again we turn to them, | |
| To contemplate in pleased review; | |
| And like some picture on the screen | |
| Comes now to mind a favorite scene | |
| His master-pencil drew:— | 10 |
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| Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep, | |
| I see a small lad, spent and worn, | |
| And by the window, stern and grim, | |
| A silent figure watching him, | |
| So dusty, ragged, torn. | 15 |
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| Ah, now she rises from behind | |
| The round green fan beside her chair; | |
| “Poor fellow!” croons—and pity lends | |
| Her voice new softness—and she bends | |
| And brushes back his hair. | 20 |
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| Then in his sleep he softly stirs. | |
| Was that a dream, these murmured words? | |
| He wakes! There by the casement sat | |
| Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat | |
| And her canary birds. | 25 |
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| The peaceful calm of that quaint room, | |
| Its marks of comfort everywhere— | |
| Old china and mahogany | |
| And blowing in, fresh from the sea, | |
| The perfume-laden air. | 30 |
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| Poor little pilgrim so bereft, | |
| So weary at his journey’s end! | |
| What joy must then have filled his soul | |
| To reach at last such happy goal— | |
| To find—oh, such a friend!… | 35 |
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| And then night came, and from his bed | |
| He saw the sea, moonlit and bright, | |
| And dreamed there came, to bless her son, | |
| His mother, with her little one, | |
| Adown that path of light. | 40 |
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| Ah, greater blessing I’d not crave, | |
| When my life’s pilgrimage is o’er, | |
| Than such repose, content, and love; | |
| Some shining path that leads above | |
| To dear ones gone before! | 45 |
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