Verse > John Greenleaf Whittier > The Poetical Works in Four Volumes
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John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892).  The Poetical Works in Four Volumes.  1892.
 
Poems Subjective and Reminiscent
To my Sister
 
        
With a Copy of “The Supernaturalism of New England”
  
  The work referred to was a series of papers under this title, contributed to the Democratic Review and afterward collected into a volume, in which I noted some of the superstitions and folklore prevalent in New England. The volume has not been kept in print, but most of its contents are distributed in my Literary Recreations and Miscellanies.

DEAR Sister! while the wise and sage
Turn coldly from my playful page,
And count it strange that ripened age
  Should stoop to boyhood’s folly;
I know that thou wilt judge aright        5
Of all which makes the heart more light,
Or lends one star-gleam to the night
  Of clouded Melancholy.
 
Away with weary cares and themes!
Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams!        10
Leave free once more the land which teems
  With wonders and romances!
Where thou, with clear discerning eyes,
Shalt rightly read the truth which lies
Beneath the quaintly masking guise        15
  Of wild and wizard fancies.
 
Lo! once again our feet we set
On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,
By lonely brooks, whose waters fret
  The roots of spectral beeches;        20
Again the hearth-fire glimmers o’er
Home’s whitewashed wall and painted floor,
And young eyes widening to the lore
  Of faery-folks and witches.
 
Dear heart! the legend is not vain        25
Which lights that holy hearth again,
And calling back from care and pain,
  And death’s funereal sadness,
Draws round its old familiar blaze
The clustering groups of happier days,        30
And lends to sober manhood’s gaze
  A glimpse of childish gladness.
 
And, knowing how my life hath been
A weary work of tongue and pen,
A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men,        35
  Thou wilt not chide my turning
To con, at times, an idle rhyme,
To pluck a flower from childhood’s clime,
Or listen, at Life’s noonday chime,
  For the sweet bells of Morning!

  1847.
        40
 
 
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