Thorp Green

by Branwell Brontë

I sit, this evening, far away,
    From all I used to know,
And nought reminds my soul to-day
    Of happy long ago.

Unwelcome cares, unthought-of fears,
    Around my room arise;
I seek for suns of former years
    But clouds o'ercast my skies.

Yes--Memory, wherefore does thy voice
    Bring old times back to view,
As thou wouldst bid me not rejoice
    In thoughts and prospects new?

I'll thank thee, Memory, in the hour
    When troubled thoughts are mine--
For thou, like suns in April's shower,
    On shadowy scenes wilt shine.

I'll thank thee when approaching death
    Would quench life's feeble ember,
For thou wouldst even renew my breath
    With thy sweet word 'Remember'!