Oh! call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee—
Where is my brother gone?
The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight—
Oh! call my brother back.
The flowers run wild—the flowers we
Around our garden-tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load—
Oh! call him back to me.
"He would not hear my voice, fair
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled,
On earth no more thou'lt see