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T
HE picture which I see to-night, upon the wall of old, old time, Is real and fair enough, I trow, to paint again in homely rhyme; Because so real is the scene--I seem to walk along the way, Along the road of years ago, where with my dog I used to play. The little bridge so oft I crossed remains as plain as long ago, Near where with skates and sled I went, on icy surface all aglow ; The old and leafless tree appears, in naked garb to stem the storm, And add unto this winter scene where everything seems so forlorn. Wood-colored house around the turn of that old road so plain to see, Beneath the full and silver moon, with its fair face, to beam on me; Although the misty clouds above, in contrast leave a picture fair, As lights in windows of the house; though old, perhaps you find me there. Except for that, no sign appears about the winter scene to- night And still I love the fleecy snow, o'er which my hand-sled ran so light; Yes, all is very dear to me, and every rod I fondly know, And with my dog and skates again, the picture fair I love to show. |