The First Grief

Oh! Call my brother back to mne,
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee-
Where is my brother gone?

The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight-
Oh! Call my brother back.

The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed
Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load
Oh! Call him back to me.

He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled
On earth no more thou'lt 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 the 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 wandering o'er?
Oh! While my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more!