Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/144

134 With golden riches of her own,

And Summer's glories mellowed down,

The freshness you deplore.'

And long I waited, but in vain:

That freshness never came again,

Though Summer passed away,

Though Autumn's mists hung cold and chill,

And drooping nature languished still,

And sank into decay.

Till wintry blasts foreboding blew

Through leafless trees—and then I knew

That Hope was all a dream.

But thus, fond youth, she cheated me;

And she will prove as false to thee,

Though sweet her words may seem."

Stern prophet! Cease thy bodings dire—

Thou canst not quench the ardent fire

That warms the breast of youth.

Oh, let it cheer him while it may,

And gently, gently die away—

Chilled by the damps of truth!

Tell him, that earth is not our rest;

Its joys are empty—frail at best;

And point beyond the sky.