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BROTHERS.
119
Arthur, I left you robed in white, and gay,
A chorister.
Silent I find you, — I so old, and grey,
And sinister.
Which is my brother ? Arthur, dead, a child ?
What kin are we ?
Or the bright angel, dwelling underiled,
More strange is he.
No friend least known, no foe most held in fear,
Could scare me so
As could my brother, held familiar, dear,
So long ago.
Yet as I love him still, though grown so great,
It well may be
His love doth bridge the gulf between our state,
And reach to me.
