To my Brother Brother, where dost thou dwell? What sun shines for thee now? Dost thou indeed fare well As we wished thee here below What season didst thou find? T was winter here. Are not the Fates more kind Than they appear? Is thy brow clear again As in thy youthful years? And was that ugly pain The summit of thy fears? Yet thou wast cheery still They could not quench your fire; Thou didst abide their will And then retire. Where chiefly shall I look To feel thy presence near? Along the neighboring brook May I thy voice still hear? Does thou still haunt the brink/ Of yonder rivers tide/ And may I ever think/ That thou art by my side? What bird will thou employ/ To bring me word of thee/ For it would give them joy/ T would give them liberty/To serve their former lord/ With wing and minstrelsy. A sadder strain mixed with their song/ Theyve slowlier built their nests/Since thou art gone/ Their lively labor rests. Where is the finch, the thrush/ I used to hear/ Ah, they could well abide/ The dying year. Now they know more return/ I hear them not/ They have remained to mourn/ Or else forgot Henry David Thoreau 1850(ish)
Posted on: Wed, 10 Dec 2014 02:15:12 +0000
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