48
THE BROTHER'S HAND.
By dim degrees he made himself grow dear,
By seeming everything his brother was.
Whatever in the other had been clear,
In him she saw—darkly as in a glass.
At last, in some weird, subtle way, he grew
The shadow, or the very self, of Hugh.
And—well, the Summer withered from the grass.
By seeming everything his brother was.
Whatever in the other had been clear,
In him she saw—darkly as in a glass.
At last, in some weird, subtle way, he grew
The shadow, or the very self, of Hugh.
And—well, the Summer withered from the grass.
What then? The asters in the vases glowed
Again; the parlour held the shining fire
Again; the mirror, three years older, showed
The trailing mistiness of a bride's attire;
And, this time, Frederick watched her from his dream.
He was not happy, quite, nor did he seem,
Yet such fair vanity he must admire.
Again; the parlour held the shining fire
Again; the mirror, three years older, showed
The trailing mistiness of a bride's attire;
And, this time, Frederick watched her from his dream.
He was not happy, quite, nor did he seem,
Yet such fair vanity he must admire.
Once more the thistles blew across the rain,
The grey, wet thorn-tree glimmered once and shook;
And then she thought: "If one should come again—
Or should not come—after a bitter look!"
And then—a sudden voice, familiar-low,
And phantom-sweet, but heavily-bent and slow,
Read out the silence of the favourite book.
The grey, wet thorn-tree glimmered once and shook;
And then she thought: "If one should come again—
Or should not come—after a bitter look!"
And then—a sudden voice, familiar-low,
And phantom-sweet, but heavily-bent and slow,
Read out the silence of the favourite book.
