* * *

Charlotte Brontë

Speak of the North! A lonely moor

Silent and dark and tractless swells,

The waves of some wild streamlet pour

Hurriedly through its ferny dells.

Profoundly still the twilight air,

Lifeless the landscape; so we deem

Till like a phantom gliding near

A stag bends down to drink the stream.

And far away a mountain zone,

A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies,

And one star, large and soft and lone,

Silently lights the unclouded skies. 

Life

LIFE, believe, is not a dream

 So dark as sages say;

Oft a little morning rain

 Foretells a pleasant day. 

Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,

 But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom,

 O why lament its fall ? 

 Rapidly, merrily,

 Life's sunny hours flit by,

 Gratefully, cheerily,

 Enjoy them as they fly ! 

What though Death at times steps in

 And calls our Best away ?

What though sorrow seems to win,

 O'er hope, a heavy sway ?

Yet hope again elastic springs,

 Unconquered, though she fell;

Still buoyant are her golden wings,

 Still strong to bear us well.

 Manfully, fearlessly,

 The day of trial bear,

 For gloriously, victoriously,

 Can courage quell despair !