Mirror the joys of sisterhood: 10 heartfelt cute poems for your sister

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Have you ever paused to reflect on the unique bond you share with your sister?

The joys of sisterhood are filled with laughter, love, and unforgettable memories that deserve to be celebrated.

Here are 10 cute poems that beautifully capture the essence of our connection, showcasing the warmth and playfulness that define our relationship.

Let’s get started!

My favorite cute poem for your sister

#1 “One Sister have I in our house” by Emily Dickinson

One Sister

One Sister have I in our house –
And one a hedge away.
There’s only one recorded,
But both belong to me.

One came the way that I came –
And wore my past year’s gown –
The other as a bird her nest,
Builded our hearts among.

She did not sing as we did –
It was a different tune –
Herself to her a Music
As Bumble-bee of June.

Today is far from Childhood –
But up and down the hills
I held her hand the tighter –
Which shortened all the miles –

And still her hum
The years among,
Deceives the Butterfly;
Still in her Eye
The Violets lie
Mouldered this many May.

I spilt the dew –
But took the morn, –
I chose this single star
From out the wide night’s numbers –
Sue – forevermore!

This poem is my favorite for celebrating sisterhood because it beautifully captures the unique bond between sisters.

The imagery of two sisters, one near and one just a hedge away, reflects the joy of shared memories and the comfort of connection.

It reminds us that even as we grow older, the love and experiences we share with our sisters remain strong and enduring.

9 more cute poems for your sister

#2 “To A Sister” by George MacDonald

A Fresh

A fresh young voice that sings to me
So often many a simple thing,
Should surely not unanswered be
By all that I can sing.

Dear voice, be happy every way
A thousand changing tones among,
From little child’s unfinished lay
To angel’s perfect song.

In dewy woods–fair, soft, and green
Like morning woods are childhood’s bower–
Be like the voice of brook unseen
Among the stones and flowers;

A joyful voice though born so low,
And making all its neighbours glad;
Sweet, hidden, constant in its flow
Even when the winds are sad.

So, strengthen in a peaceful home,
And daily deeper meanings bear;
And when life’s wildernesses come
Be brave and faithful there.

Try all the glorious magic range,
Worship, forgive, console, rejoice,
Until the last and sweetest change–
So live and grow, dear voice.

#3 “To My Sister, On Her Twenty-First Birthday” by George MacDonald

Fables Are

I.

Old fables are not all a lie
That tell of wondrous birth,
Of Titan children, father Sky,
And mighty mother Earth.

Yea, now are walking on the ground
Sons of the mingled brood;
Yea, now upon the earth are found
Such daughters of the Good.

Earth-born, my sister, thou art still
A daughter of the sky;
Oh, climb for ever up the hill
Of thy divinity!

To thee thy mother Earth is sweet,
Her face to thee is fair;
But thou, a goddess incomplete,
Must climb the starry stair.

II.

Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend,
Wouldst see the Father’s face?
To all his other children bend,
And take the lowest place.

Be like a cottage on a moor,
A covert from the wind,
With burning fire and open door,
And welcome free and kind.

Thus humbly doing on the earth
The things the earthly scorn,
Thou shalt declare the lofty birth
Of all the lowly born.

III.

Be then thy sacred womanhood
A sign upon thee set,
A second baptism–understood–
For what thou must be yet.

For, cause and end of all thy strife,
And unrest as thou art,
Still stings thee to a higher life
The Father at thy heart.

#4 “The Sisters – A Picture By Barry” by John Greenleaf Whittier

The Shade

The shade for me, but over thee
The lingering sunshine still;
As, smiling, to the silent stream
Comes down the singing rill.

So come to me, my little one,
My years with thee I share,
And mingle with a sister’s love
A mother’s tender care.

But keep the smile upon thy lip,
The trust upon thy brow;
Since for the dear one God hath called
We have an angel now.

Our mother from the fields of heaven
Shall still her ear incline;
Nor need we fear her human love
Is less for love divine.

The songs are sweet they sing beneath
The trees of life so fair,
But sweetest of the songs of heaven
Shall be her children’s prayer.

Then, darling, rest upon my breast,
And teach my heart to lean
With thy sweet trust upon the arm
Which folds us both unseen

#5 “Brother And Sister” by Lewis Carroll

Sister Sister

“Sister, sister, go to bed!
Go and rest your weary head.”
Thus the prudent brother said.

“Do you want a battered hide,
Or scratches to your face applied?”
Thus his sister calm replied.

“Sister, do not raise my wrath.
I’d make you into mutton broth
As easily as kill a moth”

The sister raised her beaming eye
And looked on him indignantly
And sternly answered, “Only try!”

Off to the cook he quickly ran.
“Dear Cook, please lend a frying-pan
To me as quickly as you can.”

And wherefore should I lend it you?”
“The reason, Cook, is plain to view.
I wish to make an Irish stew.”

“What meat is in that stew to go?”
“My sister’ll be the contents!”
“Oh”
“You’ll lend the pan to me, Cook?”
“No!”

Moral: Never stew your sister.

#6 “To Annie On Her Birthday” by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

Sister Sweets

Sister, sweet sister, years have passed away,
Since first, ‘mid warm hearts, sunny, frank and true,
I commenced rhyming on thy natal day,
On the green sod where Erin’s shamrock grew.

‘Twas in that age that ne’er returns again,
Whose tears are but as dew on Summer flowers;
And young, warm hearts beat kindly round us then,
And eyes beamed brightly, answering love to ours

And now an exile from my native land,
Thinking of well remembered, loved Grace Hill,
To mine own sister verses I will send,
Worthless, yet proving that I love her still

It is thy birthday, and I am alone,
Thinking of that dear land that gave us birth,
The land of hearts that beat to truth alone,
The brightest emerald gem of all the earth.

These fond regrets that press around my heart,
And bring a pain I cannot rise above,
Makes thee still dearer here, alone, apart,
For fate has left me nothing else to love.

Changing life and ever swallowing death,
Have taken what I loved against my will,
But, never mind, for thou, kind hearted, true,
Changeless and noble, thou art left me still.

Happy returns I surely wish thee, Ann,
In this new land that’s fated to be ours,
And may you have a happy heart, that can
Enjoy the sunshine, and endure the showers.

#7 “To My Sister. On Her Birthday” by Mary Gardiner Horsford

T Is

‘T is said that each succeeding year
Another circlet weaves
Within each living, waving tree;
Yet not in buds or leaves,–
But far within the silent core,
The tiny shuttles ply,
At Nature’s ever-working loom,
Unseen by human eye.

And thus, within my “heart of hearts,”
Doth this returning day,
Another golden zone complete,
Another circle lay;
And when unto the shadowy past
In retrospect I flee,
I numerate the fleeting years
By deepening love for thee.

Since last we met this sunny day
How bright the hours have flown!
Youth, Love, and Hope, with fadeless light,
Around our way have shone;
And if a shadow from the past
Has floated o’er the dream,
‘T was softened, like a violet cloud
Reflected in a stream.

Yet if an hour of bitter grief,
Should e’er thy spirit claim,
May it the trying ordeal pass,
As gold the fiery flame;
And may the years that bind our hearts
In love that cannot die,
Still draw us hourly nearer God,
And nearer to the sky.

#8 “To My Sister” by William Wordsworth

It Is

It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My sister! (’tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you; and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We’ll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.

Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey:
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We’ll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We’ll give to idleness.

#9 “To My Sister” by John Greenleaf Whittier

Dear Sister

Dear Sister! while the wise and sage
Turn coldly from my playful page,
And count it strange that ripened age
Should stoop to boyhood’s folly;
I know that thou wilt judge aright
Of all which makes the heart more light,
Or lends one star-gleam to the night
Of clouded Melancholy.

Away with weary cares and themes!
Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams!
Leave free once more the land which teems
With wonders and romances
Where thou, with clear discerning eyes,
Shalt rightly read the truth which lies
Beneath the quaintly masking guise
Of wild and wizard fancies.

Lo! once again our feet we set
On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,
By lonely brooks, whose waters fret
The roots of spectral beeches;
Again the hearth-fire glimmers o’er
Home’s whitewashed wall and painted floor,
And young eyes widening to the lore
Of faery-folks and witches.

Dear heart! the legend is not vain
Which lights that holy hearth again,
And calling back from care and pain,
And death’s funereal sadness,
Draws round its old familiar blaze
The clustering groups of happier days,
And lends to sober manhood’s gaze
A glimpse of childish gladness.

And, knowing how my life hath been
A weary work of tongue and pen,
A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men,
Thou wilt not chide my turning
To con, at times, an idle rhyme,
To pluck a flower from childhood’s clime,
Or listen, at Life’s noonday chime,
For the sweet bells of Morning!

#10 “To My Sister” by George MacDonald

Then Live

O sister, God is very good–
Thou art a woman now:
O sister, be thy womanhood
A baptism on thy brow!

For what?–Do ancient stories lie
Of Titans long ago,
The children of the lofty sky
And mother earth below?

Nay, walk not now upon the ground
Some sons of heavenly mould?
Some daughters of the Holy, found
In earthly garments’ fold?

He said, who did and spoke the truth:
“Gods are the sons of God.”
And so the world’s Titanic youth
Strives homeward by one road.

Then live thou, sister, day and night,
An earth-child of the sky,
For ever climbing up the height
Of thy divinity.

Still in thy mother’s heart-embrace,
Waiting thy hour of birth,
Thou growest by the genial grace
Of the child-bearing earth.

Through griefs and joys, each sad and sweet,
Thou shalt attain the end;
Till then a goddess incomplete–
O evermore my friend!

Nor is it pride that striveth so:
The height of the Divine
Is to be lowly ‘mid the low;
No towering cloud–a mine;

A mine of wealth and warmth and song,
An ever-open door;
For when divinely born ere long,
A woman thou the more.

For at the heart of womanhood
The child’s great heart doth lie;
At childhood’s heart, the germ of good,
Lies God’s simplicity.

So, sister, be thy womanhood
A baptism on thy brow
For something dimly understood,
And which thou art not now;

But which within thee, all the time,
Maketh thee what thou art;
Maketh thee long and strive and climb–
The God-life at thy heart.

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