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Home  »  The Poetical Works In Four Volumes  »  To my Sister

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

    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!

    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

    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;

    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

    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,

    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,

    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.