 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
202
MY BROTHER.
The beech-wood fire is burning bright
'T is wild November weather—
Like that of many a stormy night
We 've sat and talked together.
'T is wild November weather—
Like that of many a stormy night
We 've sat and talked together.
Such pretty plans for future years
We told to one another—
I cannot choose but ask with tears,
Where are they now, my brother?
We told to one another—
I cannot choose but ask with tears,
Where are they now, my brother?
Where are they now, the dreams we dreamed
That scattered sunshine o'er us,
And where the hills of flowers that seemed
A little way before us?
That scattered sunshine o'er us,
And where the hills of flowers that seemed
A little way before us?
The hills with golden tops, and springs,
Than which no springs were clearer?
Ah me, for all our journeyings
They are not any nearer!
Than which no springs were clearer?
Ah me, for all our journeyings
They are not any nearer!
One, last year, who with sunny eyes
A watch with me was keeping,
Is gone: across the next hill lies
The snow upon her sleeping.
A watch with me was keeping,
Is gone: across the next hill lies
The snow upon her sleeping.
And so alone, night after night,
I keep the fire a-burning,
And trim and make the candle light,
And watch for your returning.
I keep the fire a-burning,
And trim and make the candle light,
And watch for your returning.
The clock ticks slow, the cricket tame
Is on the hearth-stone crying,
And the old Bible just the same
Is on the table lying.
Is on the hearth-stone crying,
And the old Bible just the same
Is on the table lying.
The watch-dog whines beside the door,
My hands forget the knitting—
Oh, shall we ever any more
Together here be sitting!
My hands forget the knitting—
Oh, shall we ever any more
Together here be sitting!
203
Sometimes I wish the winds would sink,
The cricket hush its humming,
The while I listened, for I think
I hear a footstep coming.
The cricket hush its humming,
The while I listened, for I think
I hear a footstep coming.
Just as it used so long ago;
My cry of joy I smother—
'T is only fancy cheats me so,
And never thou, my brother!
My cry of joy I smother—
'T is only fancy cheats me so,
And never thou, my brother!
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |