Dreams While on my lonely couch I lie, I seldom feel myself alone, For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own. Then I may cherish at my breast An infants form beloved and fair, May smile and soothe it into rest With all mothers fondest care. How sweet to feel its helpless form Depending thus on me alone! What bliss to think it is my own! And while I hold it safe and warm And glances then may meet my eyes That daylight never showed to me; What raptures in my bosom rise, Those earnest looks of love to see, To feel my hand so kindly prest, To know myself beloved at last, To think my heart has found a rest, My life of solitude is past! But then to wake and find it flown, The dream of happiness destroyed, To find myself unloved, alone, What tongue can speak the dreary void? A heart whence warm affections flow, Creator, thou hast given to me, And am I only thus to know How sweet the joys of love would be? Anne Brontë
Posted on: Wed, 07 May 2014 18:41:23 +0000
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