Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/119

Rh 'Tis not the air I wished to play,

The strain I wished to sing;

My wilful spirit slipped away

And struck another string.

I neither wanted smile nor tear,

Bright joy nor bitter woe,

But just a song that sweet and clear,

Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace me

When sleep refused to come;

A strain to chase despondency,

When sorrowful for home.

In vain I try; I cannot sing;

All feels so cold and dead;

No wild distress, no gushing spring

Of tears in anguish shed;

But all the impatient gloom of one

Who waits a distant day,

When, some great task of suffering done,

Repose shall toil repay.

For youth departs, and pleasure flies,

And life consumes away,

And youth's rejoicing ardour dies

Beneath this drear delay;

And Patience, weary with her yoke,

Is yielding to despair,

And Health's elastic spring is broke

Beneath the strain of care.