by: Anne Bronte (1820-1849)

      RIGHTLY the sun of summer shone
      Green fields and waving woods upon,
      And soft winds wandered by;
      Above, a sky of purest blue,
      Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
      Allured the gazer's eye.

      But what were all these charms to me,
      When one sweet breath of memory
      Came gently wafting by?
      I closed my eyes against the day,
      And called my willing soul away,
      From earth, and air, and sky;

      That I might simply fancy there
      One little flower--a primrose fair,
      Just opening into sight;
      As in the days of infancy,
      An opening primrose seemed to me
      A source of strange delight.

      Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
      Nature's chief beauties spring from thee;
      Oh, still thy tribute bring
      Still make the golden crocus shine
      Among the flowers the most divine,
      The glory of the spring.

      Still in the wallflower's fragrance dwell;
      And hover round the slight bluebell,
      My childhood's darling flower.
      Smile on the little daisy still,
      The buttercup's bright goblet fill
      With all thy former power.

      For ever hang thy dreamy spell
      Round mountain star and heather bell,
      And do not pass away
      From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
      And whisper when the wild winds blow,
      Or rippling waters play.

      Is childhood, then, so all divine?
      Or Memory, is the glory thine,
      That haloes thus the past?
      Not ALL divine; its pangs of grief
      (Although, perchance, their stay be brief)
      Are bitter while they last.

      Nor is the glory all thine own,
      For on our earliest joys alone
      That holy light is cast.
      With such a ray, no spell of thine
      Can make our later pleasures shine,
      Though long ago they passed.

"Memory" is reprinted from Poems By Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. Charlotte, Anne, and Emily Bronte. Philadelphia: Lea and Blanchard, 1848.




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