Brightly the sun of summer shone, <br />Green fields and waving woods upon, <br /> And soft winds wandered by; <br />Above, a sky of purest blue, <br />Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue, <br /> Allured the gazer's eye. <br />But what were all these charms to me, <br />When one sweet breath of memory <br /> Came gently wafting by? <br />I closed my eyes against the day, <br />And called my willing soul away, <br /> From earth, and air, and sky; <br /> <br />That I might simply fancy there <br />One little flower -- a primrose fair, <br /> Just opening into sight; <br />As in the days of infancy, <br />An opening primrose seemed to me <br /> A source of strange delight. <br /> <br />Sweet Memory! ever smile on me; <br />Nature's chief beauties spring from thee, <br /> Oh, still thy tribute bring! <br />Still make the golden crocus shine <br />Among the flowers the most divine, <br /> The glory of the spring. <br /> <br />Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell; <br />And hover round the slight blue bell, <br /> My childhood's darling flower. <br />Smile on the little daisy still, <br />The buttercup's bright goblet fill <br /> With all thy former power. <br /> <br />For ever hang thy dreamy spell <br />Round mountain star and heather bell, <br /> And do not pass away <br />From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow, <br />And whisper when the wild winds blow, <br /> Or rippling waters play. <br /> <br />Is childhood, then, so all divine? <br />Or Memory, is the glory thine, <br /> That haloes thus the past? <br />Not all divine; its pangs of grief, <br />(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,) <br /> Are bitter while they last. <br /> <br />Nor is the glory all thine own, <br />For on our earliest joys alone <br /> That holy light is cast. <br />With such a ray, no spell of thine <br />Can make our later pleasures shine, <br /> Though long ago they passed. <br /> <br />Acton<br /><br />Anne Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/memory-17/
