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THE LOST LITTLE SISTER
 
 
 
 
 


188

THE LOST LITTLE SISTER

On summer nights, as day did gleam,
With waning light, from red to wan,
And we did play above the stream,
That near our house-lawn rambled on,
Our little sister lightly flew
And skipp'd about, in all her pride
Of snow-white frock and sash of blue,
A shape that night was slow to hide—
Beside the brook, that trickled thin
Among the pebbles, out and in.
When wind may blow, at evening-tide,
Now here, now there, by mound and nook,
It may be on the leafy lime,
Or grey-bough'd withy by the brook,

189

Or on the apple-trees may fall,
Or on the elms, beside the grove,
Or on the lofty tower's wall,
On places where we used to rove—
Then ev'ry sound, in ev'ry place,
Will call to mind her pretty face.
Where periwinkle's buds of blue,
By lilies' hollow cups may wind,
What, then, can their two colours do,
But call our sister back to mind?
She wore no black—she wore her white,
She wore no black—she wore her blue.
She never mourn'd another's flight,
For she has been the first that flew,
From where our nimble feet did tread,
From stone to stone, the water's bed.