# The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884)/Brother and Sister

BROTHER AND SISTER.
I.
I CANNOT choose but think upon the time When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, Because the one so near the other is.
He was the elder and a little man Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, And I the girl that puppy-like now ran, Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread.
I held him wise, and when he talked to me Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, I thought his knowledge marked the boundary Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest.
If he said "Hush!" I tried to hold my breath; Wherever he said "Come!" I stepped in faith.
II.
Long years have left their writing on my brow, But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam Of those young mornings are about me now, When we two wandered toward the far-off stream
With rod and line. Our basket held a store Baked for us only, and I thought with joy ​That I should have my share, though he had more, Because he was the elder and a boy.
The firmaments of daisies since to me Have had those mornings in their opening eyes, The bunched cowslip's pale transparency Carries that sunshine of sweet memories,
And wild-rose branches take their finest scent From those blest hours of infantine content.
III.
Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways, Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, Then with the benediction of her gaze Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still
Across the homestead to the rookery elms, Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound, So rich for us, we counted them as realms With varied products: here were earth-nuts found,
And here the Lady-fingers in deep shade; Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew, The large to split for pith, the small to braid; While over all the dark rooks cawing flew.
And made a happy strange solemnity, A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me.
IV.
Our meadow-path had memorable spots: One where it bridged a tiny rivulet, Deep hid by tangled blue Forget-me-nots; And all along the waving grasses met
"Across the homestead to the rookery elms.
Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound."
​My little palm, or nodded to my cheek, When flowers with upturned faces gazing drew My wonder downward, seeming all to speak With eyes of souls that dumbly heard and knew.
Then came the copse, where wild things rushed unseen, And black-scathed grass betrayed the past abode Of mystic gypsies, who still lurked between Me and each hidden distance of the road.
A gypsy once had startled me at play, Blotting with her dark smile my sunny day.
V.
Thus rambling we were schooled in deepest lore, And learned the meanings that give words a soul, The fear, the love, the primal passionate store, Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole.
Those hours were seed to all my after good; My infant gladness, through eye, ear, and touch, Took easily as warmth a various food To nourish the sweet skill of loving much.
For who in age shall roam the earth and find Reasons for loving that will strike out love With sudden rod from the hard year-pressed mind? Were reasons sown as thick as stars above,
'T is love must see them, as the eyes see light: Day is but Number to the darkened sight.
VI.
Our brown canal was endless to my thought; And on its banks I sat in dreamy peace, ​Unknowing how the good I loved was wrought, Untroubled by the fear that it would cease.
Slowly the barges floated into view, Hounding a grassy hill to me sublime With some Unknown beyond it, whither flew The parting cuckoo toward a fresh spring-time.
The wide-arched bridge, the scented elder-flowers, The wondrous watery rings that died too soon, The echoes of the quarry, the still hours With white robe sweeping on the shadeless noon,
Were but my growing self, are part of me, My present Past, my root of piety.
VII.
Those long days measured by my little feet Had chronicles which yield me many a text; Where irony still finds an image meet Of full-grown judgments in this world perplext.
One day my brother left me in high charge, To mind the rod, while he went seeking bait, And bade me, when I saw a nearing barge, Snatch out the line, lest he should come too late.
Proud of the task, I watched with all my might For one whole minute, till my eyes grew wide, Till sky and earth took on a strange new light And seemed a dream-world floating on some tide
A fair pavilioned boat for me alone Bearing me onward through the vast unknown.
VIII.
But sudden came the barge's pitch-black prow, Nearer and angrier came my brother's cry, And all my soul was quivering fear, when lo! Upon the imperilled line, suspended high,
A silver perch! My guilt that won the prey, Now turned to merit, had a guerdon rich Of hugs and praises, and made merry play. Until my triumph reached its highest pitch
When all at home were told the wondrous feat. And how the little sister had fished well. In secret, though my fortune tasted sweet, I wondered why this happiness befell.
"The little lass had luck," the gardener said: And so I learned, luck was with glory wed.
IX.
We had the selfsame world enlarged for each By loving difference of girl and boy: The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach He plucked for me, and oft he must employ
A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind "This thing I like my sister may not do, For she is little, and I must be kind."
Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learned Where inward vision over impulse reigns, Widening its life with separate life discerned, A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains.
​His years with others must the sweeter be For those brief days he spent in loving me.
X.
His sorrow was my sorrow, and his joy Sent little leaps and laughs through all my frame; My doll seemed lifeless and no girlish toy Had any reason when my brother came.
I knelt with him at marbles, marked his fling Cut the ringed stem and make the apple drop, Or watched him winding close the spiral string That looped the orbits of the humming top.
Grasped by such fellowship my vagrant thought Ceased with dream-fruit dream-wishes to fulfil; My aëry-picturing fantasy was taught Subjection to the harder, truer skill
That seeks with deeds to grave a thought-tracked line. And by "What is," "What will be" to define.
XI.
School parted us; we never found again That childish world where our two spirits mingled Like scents from varying roses that remain One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled.
Yet the twin habit of that early time Lingered for long about the heart and tongue: We had been natives of one happy clime, And its dear accent to our utterance clung.
​Till the dire years whose awful name is Change
Had grasped our souls still yearning in divorce,
And pitiless shaped them in two forms that range
Two elements which sever their life's course.
But were another childhood-world my share,
I would be born a little sister there.
1869