Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/22

12 These volumes, clasped with costly stone,

With print all faded, gilding gone;

These fans of leaves from Indian trees—

These crimson shells, from Indian seas—

These tiny portraits, set in rings—

Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;

Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,

And worn till the receiver's death,

Now stored with cameos, china, shells,

In this old closet's dusty cells.

I scarcely think, for ten long years,

A hand has touched these relics old;

And, coating each, slow-formed, appears,

The growth of green and antique mould.

All in this house is mossing over;

All is unused, and dim, and damp;

Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover—

Bereft for years of fire and lamp.

The sun, sometimes in summer, enters

The casements, with reviving ray;

But the long rains of many winters

Moulder the very walls away.

And outside all is ivy, clinging

To chimney, lattice, gable grey;

Scarcely one little red rose springing

Through the green moss can force its way.