Читать книгу The Illustrated London Reading Book - Various - Страница 47

Oh! call my brother back to me,

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 sow'd

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 wand'rings o'er?

Oh! while my brother with me play'd,

Would I had loved him more!—