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TWO BROTHERS
MY brother's face is turned from me;
He sees a thing I must not see,—
Alas! what may the vision be?
His form is wasted as with pain;
A fever feeds upon his brain
Whose fire, extinguished, burns again.
Sometimes he seems to hear a cry,—
And the ravens croak on the turrets nigh,
And the echoes shudder as they die.
Sometimes a cloud o'er his sight is cast,
And something viewless, whirling past,
Is borne away on the moaning blast.
And still his face is turned from me,
To hide the thing I must not see,—
Alas! what may the vision be?
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Her lips apart, her blue eyes wide,
My mother lay in her state and pride,—
The fairest thing that yet had died!
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