18 SEPTEMBER 1897, Page 15

POETRY.

TO A SISTER.

SISTER, so like to her I dare not name

For tears; so like, and liker every day ;

The same sad eyes, the same glad heart, the same Wise lips that mean so much they will not say : Though I and thou were of the self-same clay

Cast, in the self-same mould, with single aim, On me the mould's fair outline did not stay.

Sister, be not so like ; almost I blame Thee, blameless, growing liker day by day : Since bat for that, thou wouldst, though long a dame, To me be damsel still, as still thou'rt gay ;

But now thy hair is streaked, like hers, with grey,

Now round thine eyes like cares like channels frame, I fear lest fate snatch thee, and that same way.

B.