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Poem by Anne Brontë
Verses By Lady Geralda
Why, when I hear the stormy breath Of the wild winter wind Rushing o'er the mountain heath, Does sadness fill my mind? For long ago I loved to lie Upon the pathless moor, To hear the wild wind rushing by With never ceasing roar; Its sound was music then to me; Its wild and lofty voice Made by heart beat exultingly And my whole soul rejoice. But now, how different is the sound? It takes another tone, And howls along the barren ground With melancholy moan. Why does the warm light of the sun No longer cheer my eyes? And why is all the beauty gone From rosy morning skies? Beneath this lone and dreary hill There is a lovely vale; The purling of a crystal rill, The sighing of the gale, The sweet voice of the singing bird, The wind among the trees, Are ever in that valley heard; While every passing breeze Is loaded with the pleasant scent Of wild and lovely flowers. To yonder vales I often went To pass my evening hours. Last evening when I wandered there To soothe my weary heart, Why did the unexpected tear From my sad eyelid start? Why did the trees, the buds, the stream Sing forth so joylessly? And why did all the valley seem So sadly changed to me? I plucked a primrose young and pale That grew beneath a tree And then I hastened from the vale Silent and thoughtfully. Soon I was near my lofty home, But when I cast my eye Upon that flower so fair and lone Why did I heave a sigh? I thought of taking it again To the valley where it grew. But soon I spurned that thought as vain And weak and childish too. And then I cast that flower away To die and wither there; But when I found it dead today Why did I shed a tear? O why are things so changed to me? What gave me joy before Now fills my heart with misery, And nature smiles no more. And why are all the beauties gone From this my native hill? Alas! my heart is changed alone: Nature is constant still. For when the heart is free from care, Whatever meets the eye Is bright, and every sound we hear Is full of melody. The sweetest strain, the wildest wind, The murmur of a stream, To the sad and weary mind Like doleful death knells seem. Father! thou hast long been dead, Mother! thou art gone, Brother! thou art far away, And I am left alone. Long before my mother died I was sad and lone, And when she departed too Every joy was flown. But the world's before me now, Why should I despair? I will not spend my days in vain, I will not linger here! There is still a cherished hope To cheer me on my way; It is burning in my heart With a feeble ray. I will cheer the feeble spark And raise it to a flame; And it shall light me through the world, And lead me on to fame. I leave thee then, my childhood's home, For all thy joys are gone; I leave thee through the world to roam In search of fair renown, From such a hopeless home to part Is happiness to me, For nought can charm my weary heart Except activity.
Anne Brontë's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org