Every time this sweet young face
Looks upon me from the wall;
Death, it seems, hath one dear grace
That can make amends for all.

After wearing years have sped,
This will then be true as now
To the beauty of the dead,
To her lovely, lineless brow.

Had time been her heritage,
Then this picture some far day,
When her face was marred with age
And this flowing glory gray,

Would but make one draw a sigh
That such beauty must grow old;
Now—the latest by and by
Still will leave her youth untold.

Every time this pictured face
Seems to give its smile to me,
Then I thank death for the grace
That keeps one young immortally.