How beautiful the Earth is
To thee–how full of Happiness;
How little fraught with real
Or shadowy phantoms of distress;
How Spring can bring thee glory
And Summer win thee to
December's sullen time!
Why dost thou hold the treasure
Of youth's delight, when youth is
And thou art near thy prime?
When those who were thy own compeers,
Equal in fortunes and in years,
Have seen their morning melt in tears,
To dull unlovely day;
Blest, had they died unproved and
Before their hearts were wildly wrung,
Poor slaves, subdued by passions strong,
A weak and helpless prey!"Because,
I hoped while they enjoyed,
And by fulfilment, hope
As children hope, with trustful breast,
I waited Bliss and cherished Rest."A thoughtful Spirit taught me
That we must long till life be done;
That every phase of earthly
Will always fade and always cloy--"This I foresaw, and would not
The fleeting treacheries,
But with firm foot and tranquil
Held backward from the tempting race,
Gazed o'er the sands the waves
To the enduring seas–"There cast my anchor of
Deep in unknown Eternity;
Nor ever let my Spirit
With looking for What is to be."It is Hope's spell that
Like youth to my maturer
All Nature's million mysteries--The fearful and the fair–"Hope soothes me in the griefs I know,
She lulls my pain for others'
And makes me strong to
What I am born to bear."Glad comforter, will I not
Unawed the darkness of the grave?
Nay, smile to hear Death's billows rave,
My Guide, sustained by thee?
The more unjust seems present
The more my Spirit springs
Strong in thy strength, to
Rewarding Destiny!
Sister Charlotte Brontë wrote "Never was better stuff penned." in the manuscript of this poem.
