Short was the season of our intercourse <br />And born, it seem'd, of wayward accident, <br />Yet ne'er before was friendship's sweet discourse <br />More sorely needed, or more kindly lent. <br />The wand'ring winds, that seem no law to know, <br />Scatter the seed of many a precious flow'r; <br />And this our love, rooted, I trust, to grow, <br />Was sown by chance, and sprang in one short hour. <br />In a drear drought of bitter loneliness, <br />Parted from friends and kindred far away, <br />Urging with spirits full of heaviness <br />The weary hours that crept thro' each long day; <br />I little thought, one of those days would hold, <br />Like a closed casket, hidden wealth untold, <br />Or that a listless foot, that seem'd to stray <br />Objectless, on the road where lay my way, <br />Would strike a sudden spark out of my gloom, <br />And my low flickering light of hope relume, <br />Drawing again colour, and form, and tone, <br />From the dull, faded thing, my life had grown.<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-to-2/
