A Child’s First Grief

A Child’s First Grief
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O, call my brother back to me!
I can not play alone:
The summer comes with flower and bee—
Where is my brother gone?
The flowers run wild, the flowers we sowed
Around our garden tree;
Our 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:
The face that once like summer smiled
On earth no more thou’lt see.
A rose’s brief bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
So 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!