Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell by Emily Brontë;Charlotte Brontë;Anne Brontë
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page 8 of 210 (03%)
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How strange this mass of ancient treasures,
Mementos of past pains and pleasures; These volumes, clasped with costly stone, With print all faded, gilding gone; These fans of leaves from Indian trees-- These crimson shells, from Indian seas-- These tiny portraits, set in rings-- Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things; Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith, And worn till the receiver's death, Now stored with cameos, china, shells, In this old closet's dusty cells. I scarcely think, for ten long years, A hand has touched these relics old; And, coating each, slow-formed, appears The growth of green and antique mould. All in this house is mossing over; All is unused, and dim, and damp; Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover-- Bereft for years of fire and lamp. The sun, sometimes in summer, enters The casements, with reviving ray; But the long rains of many winters Moulder the very walls away. And outside all is ivy, clinging |
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