11
O what shall I hang on the chamber
walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I
hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I
love?
Pictures of growing spring and farms
and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown,
and the gray smoke lucid and
bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the
gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun,
burning, expanding the air,
With the fresh sweet herbage under
foot, and the pale green leaves
of the trees prolific,
In the distance the flowing glaze, the
breast of the river, with a wind-dapple
here and there,
With ranging hills on the banks, with
many a line against the sky, and
shadows,
And the city at hand with dwellings so
dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life and the workshops,
and the workmen homeward
returning.