By My Sister
Composed 1807.—Published 1815
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere.—I. F.]
One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.
A month, sweet Little-ones, is past
Since your dear Mother went away,—
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.
O blessed tidings! thought of joy! 5
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,—
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"
Louder and louder did he shout,
With witless hope to bring her near; 10
"Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
Your tender mother cannot hear."
I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;—
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 15
But he submits; what can he do?
No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity. 20
Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.