By Felicia Hemans
O, call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone;
The Summer comes with flower and bee,
Where is my brother gone – ?
“The flowers run wild, the flowers we sowed,
Aroung our garden tree;
Or vine is drooping with its load,
O, call him back to me.”
“He would not hear thy voice, fair child,
He may not come to thee,
His face that once like Summer smiled
On earth no more thou’t see.
“A rose’s brief, bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go, thou must play alone, my boy;
Thy brother is in Heaven.”
“And has he left his birds and flowers?
And must I call in vain?
And through the long, long Summer hours,
Will he not come again?”
“And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o’er?
O, while my brother with me played
Would I had loved him more!”
Sent in by D.D.D., Boston