Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/118

108 Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream

I treasure up so jealously,

All the sweet thoughts I live on seem

To vanish into vacancy:

And then, this strange, coarse world around

Seems all that's palpable and true;

And every sight, and every sound,

Combines my spirit to subdue

To aching grief, so void and lone

Is Life and Earth—so worse than vain,

The hopes that, in my own heart sown,

And cherished by such sun and rain

As Joy and transient Sorrow shed,

Have ripened to a harvest there:

Alas! methinks I hear it said,

"Thy golden sheaves are empty air."

All fades away; my very home

I think will soon be desolate;

I hear, at times, a warning come

Of bitter partings at its gate;

And, if I should return and see

The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;

And hear it whispered mournfully,

That farewells have been spoken there,

What shall I do, and whither turn?

Where look for peace? When cease to mourn?