'Tis strange to think, there was a time <br />When mirth was not an empty name, <br />When laughter really cheered the heart, <br />And frequent smiles unbidden came, <br />And tears of grief would only flow <br />In sympathy for others' woe; <br />When speech expressed the inward thought, <br />And heart to kindred heart was bare, <br />And Summer days were far too short <br />For all the pleasures crowded there, <br />And silence, solitude, and rest, <br />Now welcome to the weary breast -- <br /> <br />Were all unprized, uncourted then -- <br />And all the joy one spirit showed, <br />The other deeply felt again; <br />And friendship like a river flowed, <br />Constant and strong its silent course, <br />For nought withstood its gentle force: <br /> <br />When night, the holy time of peace, <br />Was dreaded as the parting hour; <br />When speech and mirth at once must cease, <br />And Silence must resume her power; <br />Though ever free from pains and woes, <br />She only brought us calm repose; <br /> <br />And when the blessed dawn again <br />Brought daylight to the blushing skies, <br />We woke, and not reluctant then, <br />To joyless labour did we rise; <br />But full of hope, and glad and gay, <br />We welcomed the returning day. <br /> <br />Acton<br /><br />Anne Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/past-days-2/
