Classic Poem

Poor is the portrait that one look portrays,
It mocks the face on which we loved to gaze;
A thousand past expressions all combined,
The mind itself depictured by the mind,
That face contains which in the heart is shrined.
Yet, dearest mother, if on lasting brass
Thy very self to future times might pass,
Ill could I bear such monument to build
For future times with dearer memories filled:
Ah no! thy fadeless portrait in my breast
From earth shall vanish when I sink to rest;
But, ere to join thee on glad wings I go,
Thy sun-like influence, beaming here below,
In sorrow's hour, when earthly hope betrays me,
To heav'n above, my hope's best aim, shall raise me,
In hours of bliss when heav'n almost seems here,
For thy sweet memory claim the tribute tear;
So yon bright orb doth tearful incense gain
From glittering lake, swift rill, and humid plain,
Yet dries the spray that trembled in the shower,
And shines reflected from each dripping flower.