Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground <br />With fallen leaves so thickly strown, <br />And cold the wind that wanders round <br />With wild and melancholy moan; <br />There is a friendly roof, I know, <br />Might shield me from the wintry blast; <br />There is a fire, whose ruddy glow <br />Will cheer me for my wanderings past. <br /> <br />And so, though still, where'er I go, <br />Cold stranger-glances meet my eye; <br />Though, when my spirit sinks in woe, <br />Unheeded swells the unbidden sigh; <br /> <br />Though solitude, endured too long, <br />Bids youthful joys too soon decay, <br />Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue, <br />And overclouds my noon of day; <br /> <br />When kindly thoughts, that would have way, <br />Flow back discouraged to my breast; -- <br />I know there is, though far away, <br />A home where heart and soul may rest. <br /> <br />Warm hands are there, that, clasped in mine, <br />The warmer heart will not belie; <br />While mirth, and truth, and friendship shine <br />In smiling lip and earnest eye. <br /> <br />The ice that gathers round my heart <br />May there be thawed; and sweetly, then, <br />The joys of youth, that now depart, <br />Will come to cheer my soul again. <br /> <br />Though far I roam, that thought shall be <br />My hope, my comfort, everywhere; <br />While such a home remains to me, <br />My heart shall never know despair! <br /> <br />Acton<br /><br />Anne Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-written-from-home/
