That summer sun, whose genial glow <br />Now cheers my drooping spirit so <br />Must cold and distant be, <br />And only light our northern clime <br />With feeble ray, before the time <br />I long so much to see. <br />And this soft whispering breeze that now <br />So gently cools my fevered brow, <br />This too, alas, must turn -- <br />To a wild blast whose icy dart <br />Pierces and chills me to the heart, <br />Before I cease to mourn. <br /> <br />And these bright flowers I love so well, <br />Verbena, rose and sweet bluebell, <br />Must droop and die away. <br />Those thick green leaves with all their shade <br />And rustling music, they must fade <br />And every one decay. <br /> <br />But if the sunny summer time <br />And woods and meadows in their prime <br />Are sweet to them that roam -- <br />Far sweeter is the winter bare <br />With long dark nights and landscapes drear <br />To them that are at Home!<br /><br />Anne Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-written-at-thorp-green/
