 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
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REPLY TO A LETTER FROM AN ABSENT SISTER.
Dear sister, if the world has aught,
That wakens envy in my thought,
It is the picture of myself,
That hangs above your “little shelf.”
That wakens envy in my thought,
It is the picture of myself,
That hangs above your “little shelf.”
You say it does not sympathize,—
Alas! the cold and painted phiz,
With silent lips and soulless eyes,—
It does not know how blest it is!
Alas! the cold and painted phiz,
With silent lips and soulless eyes,—
It does not know how blest it is!
Unmoved it hears, what I would hear
With beating heart and raptured ear;
Untouched it sees, what I would see
With loving looks and answering glee!
It hears your blessed child address
Its form with cherub tenderness;
And, all unchanged, is callous too
To words of sister-love from you!
It hears her warbling voice prolong
The notes of some impromptu song,—
A merry bird, untaught by art,
Singing the music in her heart;
It hears the laughter, wild and soft,
With which she cheers your sorrow oft;
The prayer, that rises from her lips
Like incense from the tender rose,
Before her happy spirit slips
Into its mantle of repose!
It sees, her pretty, fairy feet,
Glide in and out, with motion fleet,
Or take, by true and graceful rule,
The steps they learn at dancing-school!
It sees her soft and serious eyes,
Dilating into bright surprise,
When some dear gift from grandpapa
Reminds her of the friends afar!
It sees—ah! how much more than these,
That dull, but favoured picture sees,
Which I would give the world could be.
One moment visible to me!
With beating heart and raptured ear;
Untouched it sees, what I would see
With loving looks and answering glee!
It hears your blessed child address
Its form with cherub tenderness;
And, all unchanged, is callous too
To words of sister-love from you!
It hears her warbling voice prolong
The notes of some impromptu song,—
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Singing the music in her heart;
It hears the laughter, wild and soft,
With which she cheers your sorrow oft;
The prayer, that rises from her lips
Like incense from the tender rose,
Before her happy spirit slips
Into its mantle of repose!
It sees, her pretty, fairy feet,
Glide in and out, with motion fleet,
Or take, by true and graceful rule,
The steps they learn at dancing-school!
It sees her soft and serious eyes,
Dilating into bright surprise,
When some dear gift from grandpapa
Reminds her of the friends afar!
It sees—ah! how much more than these,
That dull, but favoured picture sees,
Which I would give the world could be.
One moment visible to me!
Yes, sister, I do think of you,
With tender sympathy and true,
And almost wish my very self
Could hang above that “little shelf.”
With tender sympathy and true,
And almost wish my very self
Could hang above that “little shelf.”
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |