By Charlotte Bronte
The Human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed; - -
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of Past may die.
Buy there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home
Then in our souls their seems to languish
A tender grief that is no woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of angusish
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once strong as passions,
Float softly back - - a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others sufferings seem.
Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for the time to be,
When through the mist of years receding
It woes but live in reverie!
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress - -
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hou and darkened room,
To solemn thougth that soar to heavan
Seeking a life and world to come