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Wednesday, 10 September 2014

To Imagination (Emily Bronte)

When weary with the long day's care, 
And earthly change from pain to pain, 
And lost, and ready to despair, 
Thy kind voice calls me back again 
0 my true friend, I am not lone 
While thou canst speak with such a tone!
So hopeless is the world without, 
The world within I doubly prize; 
Thy world where guile and hate and doubt 
And cold suspicion never rise; 
Where thou and I and Liberty 
Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it that all around 
Danger and grief and darkness lie, 
If but within our bosom's bound 
We hold a bright unsullied sky, 
Warm with ten thousand mingled rays 
Of suns that know no winter days?

Reason indeed may oft complain 
For Nature's sad reality, 
And tell the suffering heart how vain 
Its cherished dreams must always be; 
And Truth may rudely trample down 
The flowers of Fancy newly blown.

But thou art ever there to bring 
The hovering visions back and breathe 
New glories o'er the blighted spring 
And call a lovelier life from death, 
And whisper with a voice divine 
Of real worlds as bright as thine.

I trust not to thy phantom bliss, 
Yet still in evening's quiet hour 
With never-failing thankfulness I 
welcome thee, benignant power, 
Sure solacer of human cares 
And brighter hope when hope despairs.

Emily Bronte

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