A Comforter

Don’t cry, little brother;
I know that you fell,
But the place isn’t bleeding—
It soon will be well.

Dry your eyes, little brother;
You’re growing so tall
And it’s only a baby
Who cries at a fall.

But hark, little brother,
I hear the birds sing!
—We’ll play I’m a Duchess,
And you are a King!

So come, little brother,
I’ll make you a crown
Of the pretty white daisies
That grow on the down.