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- I SIT, this evening, far away,
- From all I used to know,
- And nought reminds my soul to-day
- Of happy long ago.
- Unwelcome cares, unthought-of fears,
- Around my room arise;
- I seek for suns of former years
- But clouds o'ercast my skies.
- Yes--Memory, wherefore does thy voice
- Bring old times back to view,
- As thou wouldst bid me not rejoice
- In thoughts and prospects new?
- I'll thank thee, Memory, in the hour
- When troubled thoughts are mine--
- For thou, like suns in April's shower,
- On shadowy scenes wilt shine.
- I'll thank thee when approaching death
- Would quench life's feeble ember,
- For thou wouldst even renew my breath
- With thy sweet word 'Remember'!
- Branwell Brontë
- MY soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring,
- And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
- For, above, and around me, the wild wind is roaring,
- Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.
- The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
- The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
- The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
- The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.
- I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
- The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray,
- I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing
- And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!
- Anne Brontë
- HOW brightly glistening in the sun
- The woodland ivy plays!
- While yonder beeches from their barks
- Reflect his silver rays.
- That sun surveys a lovely scene
- From softly smiling skies;
- And wildly through unnumbered trees
- The wind of winter sighs:
- Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,
- And now in distance dies.
- But give me back my barren hills
- Where colder breezes rise:
- Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
- Can yield an answering swell,
- But where a wilderness of heath
- Returns the sound as well.
- For yonder garden, fair and wide,
- With groves of evergreen,
- Long winding walks, and borders trim,
- And velvet lawns between;
- Restore to me that little spot,
- With gray walls compassed round,
- Where knotted grass neglected lies,
- And weeds usurp the ground.
- Though all around this mansion high
- Invites the foot to roam,
- And though the halls are fair within--
- Oh, give me back my home!
- Anne Brontë
(A Short Poem or Else Not Say I)
- True pleasure breathes not city air,
- Nor in Art's temples dwells,
- In palaces and towers where
- The voice of Grandeur dwells.
- No! Seek it where high Nature holds
- Her court 'mid stately groves,
- Where she her majesty unfolds,
- And in fresh beauty moves;
- Where thousand birds of sweetest song,
- The wildly rushing storm
- And hundred streams which glide along,
- Her mighty concert form!
- Go where the woods in beauty sleep
- Bathed in pale Luna's light,
- Or where among their branches sweep
- The hollow sounds of night.
- Go where the warbling nightingale
- In gushes rich doth sing,
- Till all the lonely, quiet vale
- With melody doth ring.
- Go, sit upon a mountain steep,
- And view the prospect round;
- The hills and vales, the valley's sweep,
- The far horizon bound.
- Then view the wide sky overhead,
- The still, deep vault of blue,
- The sun which golden light doth shed,
- The clouds of pearly hue.
- And as you gaze on this vast scene
- Your thoughts will journey far,
- Though hundred years should roll between
- On Time's swift-passing car.
- To ages when the earth was young,
- When patriarchs, grey and old,
- The praises of their god oft sung,
- And oft his mercies told.
- You see them with their beards of snow,
- Their robes of ample form,
- Their lives whose peaceful, gentle flow,
- Felt seldom passion's storm.
- Then a calm, solemn pleasure steals
- Into your inmost mind;
- A quiet aura your spirit feels,
- A softened stillness kind.
- Charlotte Brontë
- LIFE, believe, is not a dream,
- So dark as sages say;
- Oft a little morning rain
- Foretells a pleasant day:
- Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
- But these are transient all;
- If the shower will make the roses bloom,
- Oh, why lament its fall?
- Rapidly, merrily,
- Life's sunny hours flit by,
- Gratefully, cheerily,
- Enjoy them as they fly.
- What though death at times steps in,
- And calls our Best away?
- What though Sorrow seems to win,
- O'er hope a heavy sway?
- Yet Hope again elastic springs,
- Unconquered, though she fell,
- Still buoyant are her golden wings,
- Still strong to bear us well.
- Manfuly, fearlessly,
- The day of trial bear,
- For gloriously, victoriously,
- Can courage quell dispair!
- Charlotte Brontë
Poets' Corner .
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