 | The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley |  |
2162
SIS RAPALYE
When rainy-greener shoots the grass
And blooms the cherry tree,
And children laugh by glittering brooks,
Wild with the ecstasy
Of bursting Spring, with twittering bird
And hum of honey-bee,—
“Sis Rapalye!” my spirit shouts ...
And she is here with me!
And blooms the cherry tree,
And children laugh by glittering brooks,
Wild with the ecstasy
Of bursting Spring, with twittering bird
And hum of honey-bee,—
“Sis Rapalye!” my spirit shouts ...
And she is here with me!
As laugh the children, so her laugh
Haunts all the atmosphere;—
Her song is in the brook's refrain;
Her glad eyes, flashing clear,
Are in the morning dews; her speech
Is melody so dear,
The bluebird trills,—“Sis Rapalye!—
I hear!—I hear!—I hear!”
Haunts all the atmosphere;—
Her song is in the brook's refrain;
Her glad eyes, flashing clear,
Are in the morning dews; her speech
Is melody so dear,
The bluebird trills,—“Sis Rapalye!—
I hear!—I hear!—I hear!”
Again in races, at “Recess,”
I see her braided hair
Toss past me as I stay to lift
Her straw hat, fallen there;
The school-bell sends a vibrant pang
My heart can hardly bear.—
Yet still she leads—Sis Rapalye—
And leads me everywhere!
I see her braided hair
Toss past me as I stay to lift
Her straw hat, fallen there;
The school-bell sends a vibrant pang
My heart can hardly bear.—
Yet still she leads—Sis Rapalye—
And leads me everywhere!
2163
Now I am old.—Yet she remains
The selfsame child of ten.—
Gay, gallant little girl, to race
On into Heaven then!
Yet gallant, gay Sis Rapalye—
In blossom-time, and when
The trees and grasses beckon her—
Comes back to us again.
The selfsame child of ten.—
Gay, gallant little girl, to race
On into Heaven then!
Yet gallant, gay Sis Rapalye—
In blossom-time, and when
The trees and grasses beckon her—
Comes back to us again.
And so, however long since youth
Whose raptures wild and free
An old man's heart may claim no more,—
With more than memory
I share the Spring's own joy that brings
My boyhood back to me
With laughter, blossoms, singing birds
And sweet Sis Rapalye.
Whose raptures wild and free
An old man's heart may claim no more,—
With more than memory
I share the Spring's own joy that brings
My boyhood back to me
With laughter, blossoms, singing birds
And sweet Sis Rapalye.
| The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley | |