Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard; <br /> And oft, in childhood's years, <br />I've read them o'er and o'er again, <br /> With floods of silent tears. <br />The language of my inmost heart, <br /> I traced in every line; <br />My sins, my sorrows, hopes, and fears, <br /> Were there -- and only mine. <br /> <br />All for myself the sigh would swell, <br /> The tear of anguish start; <br />I little knew what wilder woe <br /> Had filled the Poet's heart. <br /> <br />I did not know the nights of gloom, <br /> The days of misery; <br />The long, long years of dark despair, <br /> That crushed and tortured thee. <br /> <br />But, they are gone; from earth at length <br /> Thy gentle soul is pass'd, <br />And in the bosom of its God <br /> Has found its home at last. <br /> <br />It must be so, if God is love, <br /> And answers fervent prayer; <br />Then surely thou shalt dwell on high, <br /> And I may meet thee there. <br /> <br />Is he the source of every good, <br /> The spring of purity? <br />Then in thine hours of deepest woe, <br /> Thy God was still with thee. <br /> <br />How else, when every hope was fled, <br /> Couldst thou so fondly cling <br />To holy things and holy men? <br /> And how so sweetly sing, <br /> <br />Of things that God alone could teach? <br /> And whence that purity, <br />That hatred of all sinful ways -- <br /> That gentle charity? <br /> <br />Are these the symptoms of a heart <br /> Of heavenly grace bereft: <br />For ever banished from its God, <br /> To Satan's fury left? <br /> <br />Yet, should thy darkest fears be true, <br /> If Heaven be so severe, <br />That such a soul as thine is lost, -- <br /> Oh! how shall I appear? <br /> <br />Acton<br /><br />Anne Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-cowper/
