Child of my parents! Sister of my soul! Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere Poured out for all the early tenderness Which I from thee imbibed; and 'tis most true That later seasons owed to thee no less; For, spite of thy sweet influence, and the touch Of kindred hands that opened out the springs Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite Of all that, unassisted, I had marked In life, or nature, of those charms minute, That win their way into the heart by stealth, Still, to the very going out of youth, I, too, exclusively esteemed _that_ love, And sought _that_ beauty, which, as Milton sings, Hath terror in it; but thou didst soften down This over sternness; but for thee, dear friend! My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood In her original self too confident, Retained too long a countenance severe; A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds Familiar, and a favourite of the stars: But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers, Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze, And teach the little birds to build their nests And warble in its chambers. At a time When Nature, destined to remain so long Foremost in my affections, had fallen back Into a second place, pleased to become A handmaid to a nobler than herself, When every day brought with it some new sense Of exquisite regard for common things, And all the earth was budding with these gifts Of more refined humanity, thy breath, Dear sister, was a kind of gentler spring That went before my steps.