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Poem by Branwell Brontë
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'!
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