She's gone; and twice the summer's sun
Has gilt Regina's towers,
And melted wild Angora's snows,
And warmed Epina's bowers.
The flowerets twice on hill and dale
Have bloomed and died away;
And twice the rustling forest leaves
Have fallen to decay.
And thrice stern winter's icy hand
Has checked the rivers' flow,
And three times o'er the mountains thrown
His spotless robe of snow.
Two summers, springs, and autumns sad,
Three winters, cold and grey:
And is it then so long ago
That wild November day?
They say such tears as children weep
Will soon be dried away;
That childhood's grief, however strong,
Is only for a day;
And parted friends, how dear soe'er,
Will soon forgotten be:
It may be so with other hearts;
It is not so with me.
My mother, thou wilt weep no more,
For thou art gone above;
But, can I ever cease to mourn
Thy fond and fervent love?
While that was mine the world to me
Was sunshine bright and fair;
No feeling rose within my heart
But thou couldst read it there.
And thou couldst feel for all my joys,
And all my childish cares,
And never weary of my play
Or scorn my foolish fears.
Beneath thy sweet maternal smile
All pain and sorrow fled;
And even the very tears were sweet
Upon thy bosom shed.
Thy loss can never be repaired:
I shall not know again,
While life remains, the peaceful joy
That filled my spirit then.
Where shall I find a heart like thine
While life remains to me?
And where shall I bestow the love
I ever bore for thee?
January 1, 1841. A. Z.
Anne Brontë.