The Complete Poems of Anne Brontë

Front matter

THE COMPLETE POEMS OF ANNE BRONTË

The Complete Poems of ANNE BRONTË, Edited by Clement Shorter, now for the first time collected, with a Bibliographical Introduction by C. W. Hatfield …

<>Hodder and Stoughton <>Limited London

Introduction

INTRODUCTION

By CHARLOTTE BRONTË

In looking over my sister Anne's papers, I find mournful evidence that religious feeling had been to her but too much like what it was to Cowper; I mean, of course, in a far milder form. Without rendering her a prey to those horrors that defy concealment, it subdued her mood and bearing to a perpetual pensiveness; the pillar of a cloud glided constantly before her eyes; she ever waited at the foot of a secret Sinai, listening in her heart to the voice of a trumpet sounding long and waxing louder. Some, perhaps, would rejoice over these tokens of sincere though sorrowing piety in a deceased relative: I own, to me they seem sad, as if her whole innocent life had been passed under the martyrdom of an unconfessed physical pain: their effect, indeed, would be too distressing, were it not combated by the certain knowledge that in her last moments this tyranny of a too tender conscience was overcome; this pomp of terrors broke up, and, passing away, left her dying hour unclouded. Her belief in God did not then bring to her dread, as of a stern Judge—but hope, as in a Creator and Saviour: and no faltering hope was it, but a sure and steadfast conviction, on which, in the rude passage from Time to Eternity, she threw the weight of her human weakness, and by which she was enabled to bear what was to be borne, patiently—serenely—victoriously.

A Bibliographical Introduction

A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION

In this collection of the poems of Anne Brontë the whole of her published poems are brought together for the first time in a single volume.

There are fifty-four poems altogether, and of these Anne Brontë published only twenty-four.

To the first book published by the three sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë, Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, Anne contributed twenty-one poems. This was the little volume, published in 1846, of which only two copies were sold, and which is now so prized that an amount equal to the total cost of production of the whole first edition can be easily obtained for a single copy.

One poem appears in Anne's novel, Agnes Grey, and another in that of her second and last novel, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall; in which book (vol. ii. p. 41) appears also a single verse which may or may not have been composed by her. Here is the verse:—

'Stop, poor sinner, stop and think Before you further go; No longer sport upon the brink Of everlasting woe.'

The last poem published by Anne Brontë was 'The Three Guides,' which appeared in the August, 1848, number of Fraser's Magazine.

Mrs. Gaskell, in her Life of Charlotte Brontë, 1857, vol. i. p. 343, records a short conversation between Anne Brontë and a friend, who

'saw Anne with a number of Chambers's Journal, and a gentle smile of pleasure stealing over her placid face as she read.

"What is the matter?" asked the friend. "Why do you smile?"

"Only because I see they have inserted one of my poems," was the quiet reply.'

No poem by Anne Brontë has been found in Chambers's Journal. On p. 300 of the Haworth edition of The Life of Charlotte Brontë, 1900, there is a note by Mr. Clement Shorter, in which we are informed that the editor of Chambers's Journal, Mr. C. E. S. Chambers, had endeavoured, without success, to identify Anne's poem; and Mr. T. J. Wise, in his Bibliography of the Brontës, 1917, p. 215, informs us that

"A minute and careful search through the pages of the Journal has failed to discern a single poem which could by any possibility be attributed to Anne.'

My own opinion is that, if the incident recorded by Mrs. Gaskell is true, the name Fraser's Magazine should be substituted for Chambers's Journal; although I can find no record of any meeting between Anne Brontë and Ellen Nussey (the friend mentioned by Mrs. Gaskell) about the time that 'The Three Guides' was printed.

In the year 1850, a little more than twelve months after Anne Brontë died, nine poems by her, of which seven were unpublished, were selected by Charlotte Brontë for publication in a new edition of Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey.

The remaining twenty-three 'unpublished' poems have been printed during the last twenty years. Most of them have appeared in limited editions only, and are now reprinted for the first time.

In her novel, Agnes Grey, Anne Brontë says:—

'When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain or seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we cannot, or will not wholly crush, we often naturally seek relief in poetry … whether in the effusions of others, which seem to harmonise with our own existing case, or in our own attempts to give utterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical, perchance, but more appropriate, and therefore more penetrating and sympathetic, and for the time more soothing, or more powerful to rouse and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart… I had sought relief twice or thrice at this secret source of consolation, and now I flew to it again with greater avidity than ever, because I seemed to need it more… Lest the reader should be curious to see any of these effusions I will favour him with one short specimen cold and languid as the lines may seem, it was almost a passion of grief to which they owed their being:—

"Oh, they have robbed me of the hope"

[see p. 95].

'Yes, at least they could not deprive me of that: I could think of him day and night; and I could feel that he was worthy to be thought of. Nobody knew him as I did; nobody could appreciate him as I did; nobody could love him as I —— could, if I might: but there was the evil… Yet, if I found such deep delight in thinking of him, and if I kept those thoughts to myself, and troubled no one else with them, where was the harm of it…

In August 1839, a few years before the foregoing extract was written, there arrived in Haworth 'a lively, handsome young man, fresh from Durham University.' This was the Rev. William Weightman, whom Charlotte Brontë in one of her letters calls 'our bonny-faced friend the curate of Haworth,' and in another writes of him as being as bonny, pleasant, light-hearted, good-tempered, careless, fickle, and unclerical as ever.' During the ensuing three years the sombre atmosphere of Haworth Parsonage was dispelled by the constant visits of this gay young clergyman. The incumbent's daughters were kept in a continual flutter of excitement, and there is no doubt that he was more than ordinarily attentive to Anne.

Charlotte says in one of her letters, 'He sits opposite to Anne at church, sighing softly, and looking out of the corners of his eyes, and Anne is so quiet, her look so downcast, they are a picture.'

But Anne was not allowed to remain long at home and enjoy such pleasant company. Early in the year 1841 she commenced her duties as a governess at Thorp Green, near York, and soon afterwards she wrote her pathetic little outcry, 'Appeal'; and probably the verses included in Agnes Grey belong to this time, although in the chronological table the year assigned to them is that in which the novel was written.

This one little romance of Anne's was soon ended. On the 6th September 1842 the Rev. William Weightman died after a very short illness, and a few days afterwards was buried in the north aisle of Haworth Church.

That Anne did not forget him as the years went by may be gathered from her poems, 'A Reminiscence,' 'Night,' and 'Severed and gone'; and, in permitting herself to dwell on the 'might-have-beens' of life, he became the 'Rev. Edward Weston,' and she the 'Agnes Grey' of her first novel.

For the whole of the previously unpublished material which this book contains, such as dates of poems, variations in words and lines, and additional lines and stanzas, I am indebted to Mr. Clement Shorter, the owner of the copyright of the unpublished Brontë manuscripts, who with characteristic generosity sent me all his typewritten transcripts of Anne Brontë's poems copied from the author's original manuscripts.

I must also acknowledge my indebtedness to Mr. T. J. Wise for the help which I have received from his wonderfully complete and accurate book, A Bibliography of the Writings in Prose and Verse of the Members of the Brontë Family, published in 1917.

All the poems by Anne Brontë enumerated by Mr. Wise in the bibliography are included in this collection of her poems. My own search for others has proved fruitless; and I am quite sure that if there had been any Mr. Wise would have found them.

C. W. HATFIELD.

June 26, 1920.

A Bibliography of the Complete Poems of Anne Brontë

A BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE COMPLETE POEMS OF ANNE BRONTË (ACTON BELL)

Born at Thornton, near Bradford, Yorkshire, January 17, 1820. Died at Scarborough, Yorkshire, May 28, 1849.

Note.—The books, pamphlets, periodicals, etc., mentioned in the following list are those in which the poems indicated were first printed.

(a)

Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. London: Aylott and Jones, 8, Paternoster Row. 1846.

Poems by Acton Bell:

(b)

Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. In three volumes. London: Thomas Cautley Newby, Publisher, 72, Mortimer St., Cavendish Sq. 1847. Volume III. Agnes Grey. By Acton Bell. Chapter XVII.

(c)

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. In three volumes. By Acton Bell. London: T. C. Newby, Publisher, 72, Mortimer Street, Cavendish Square. 1848. Volume I.

(d)

Fraser's Magazine. August 1848.

(e)

Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. By Ellis and Acton Bell. A New Edition revised, with … A Selection from their Literary Remains. London: Smith, Elder, and Co., 65, Cornhill. 1850. Poems by Acton Bell:

(f)

Self-Communion. A Poem by Anne Brontë. Edited by Thomas J. Wise. London: Privately printed. 1900. Edition limited to Thirty Copies.

(g)

Poems by Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë. New York: Dodd, Mead, and Company. 1902. Edition limited to 110 copies.

Poems by Anne Brontë:

(h)

The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë. London: Hodder and Stoughton. 1910. Edition limited to 1000 copies.

Poem by Anne Brontë (see note on p. 94):

(i)

Brontë Poems. Edited by Arthur C. Benson. London: Smith, Elder & Co., 15, Waterloo Place. 1915.

Poems by Anne Brontë:

(j)

Dreams and Other Poems. By Anne Brontë. London: Printed for Thomas J. Wise, Hampstead, N.W. 1917. Edition limited to Thirty Copies.

Note

NOTE

The poems in this volume which bear fictitious signatures or initials in addition to the signature or initials of Anne Brontë, and several others which are unsigned, belong to the Gondal cycle.

For several years Anne and Emily Brontë collaborated in writing about the Gondals, who appear to have been a princely race occupying a mountainous northern country:—

'Who that has breathed that heavenly air, To Northern climes would come, To Gondal's mists and moorlands drear, And sleet and frozen gloom?' >>(Emily Brontë)

Of their writings, The Gondal Plays and The Gondal Chronicles, only the poems have survived, and those by Anne Brontë are included in this volume.

The Captain's Dream

THE CAPTAIN'S DREAM

Methought I saw him, but I knew him not, He was so changed from what he used to be; There was no redness in his woe-worn cheeks, No sunny smile upon his ashy lips; His hollow, wandering eyes looked wild and fierce, And grief was printed on his marble brow; And, oh, I thought he clasped his wasted hands, And raised his haggard eyes to Heaven, and prayed That he might die. I had no power to speak; I thought I was allowed to see him thus, And yet I might not speak one single word; I might not even tell him that I lived, And that it might be possible, if search were made, To find out where I was, and set me free. Oh! how I longed to clasp him to my heart, Or but to hold his trembling hand in mine, And speak one word of comfort to his mind. I struggled wildly, but it was in vain : I could not rise from my dark dungeon floor; And the dear name I vainly strove to speak Died in a voiceless whisper on my tongue.

Then I awoke, and, lo! it was a dream. A dream? Alas! it was reality; For well I know, wherever he may be, He mourns me thus. Oh, Heaven! I could bear My deadly fate with calmness if there were No kindred hearts to bleed and break for me.

>>Alexandrina Zenobia. Anne Brontë. >>Written January 24, 1838.

The North Wind

THE NORTH WIND

That wind is from the North: I know it well; No other breeze could have so wild a swell. Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell, Then faintly dies, and softly sighs, And moans and murmurs mournfully. I know its language: thus it speaks to me:

'I have passed over thy own mountains dear, Thy northern mountains, and they still are free; Still lonely, wild, majestic, bleak, and drear, And stern, and lovely, as they used to be

'When thou, a young enthusiast, As wild and free as they, O'er rocks, and glens, and snowy heights, Didst often love to stray.

'I've blown the pure, untrodden snows In whirling eddies from their brows;

And I have howled in caverns wild, Where thou, a joyous mountain-child, Didst dearly love to be. The sweet world is not changed, but thou Art pining in a dungeon now, Where thou must ever be.

'No voice but mine can reach thy ear, And Heaven has kindly sent me here To mourn and sigh with thee, And tell thee of the cherished land Of thy nativity.'

Blow on, wild wind; thy solemn voice, However sad and drear, Is nothing to the gloomy silence I have had to bear.

Hot tears are streaming from my eyes, But these are better far Than that dull, gnawing, tearless time, The stupor of despair.

Confined and hopeless as I am, Oh, speak of liberty! Oh, tell me of my mountain home, And I will welcome thee!

>>Alexandrina Zenobia. >>Anne Brontë, January 26, 1838.

The Parting I.

THE PARTING

I

The chestnut steed stood by the gate, His noble master's will to wait; The wooded park, so green and bright, Was glowing in the morning light; The young leaves of the aspen trees Were dancing in the morning breeze. The palace door was open wide, The lord was standing there, And his sweet lady by his side, With soft, dark eyes, and raven hair. He, smiling, took her ivory hand, And said, 'No longer here I stand; My charger shakes his flowing mane, And calls me with impatient neigh. Adieu, then, till we meet again: Sweet love, I must no longer stay.'

'You must not go so soon,' she said, 'I will not say "farewell"; The sun has not dispelled the shade In yonder dewy dell.

Dark shadows of gigantic length Are sleeping on the lawn, And scarcely have the birds begun To hail the summer morn. Then stay with me a little while,' She said, with soft and sunny smile.

He smiled again, and did not speak, But lightly kissed her rosy cheek, And fondly clasped her in his arms; Then vaulted on his steed, And down the park's smooth, winding road, He urged its flying speed. Still by the door his lady stood And watched his rapid flight Until he reached a distant wood That hid him from her sight. But ere he vanished from her view He waved to her a last 'Adieu!' Then onward, hastily, he steered, And in the forest disappeared.

The lady smiled a pensive smile, And heaved a gentle sigh; But her cheek was all unbleached the while, And tearless was her eye.

'A thousand lovely flowers,' she said, 'Are smiling on the plain, And, ere one half of them are dead, My lord will come again. The leaves are waving fresh and green On every stately tree, And, long before they die away, He will return to me!' Alas! fair lady, say not so: Thou canst not tell the weight of woe That lies in store for thee!

Those flowers will fade, those leaves will fall, Winter will darken yonder hall, Sweet spring will smile o'er hill and plain, And trees and flowers will bloom again, And years will still keep rolling on; But thy beloved lord is gone! His absence thou shalt deeply mourn, And never smile on his return.

>>July 9, 1838.

The Parting II.

THE PARTING

II

The lady of Abyerno's hall Is waiting for her lord; The blackbird's song, the cuckoo's call, No joy to her afford. She smiles not at the summer's sun, Nor at the winter's blast; She mourns that she is still alone Though three long years have passed.

I knew her when her eye was bright, I knew her when her step was light And blithesome as a mountain doe's, And when her cheek was like the rose, And when her voice was full and free, And when her smile was sweet to see.

But now the lustre of her eye Is dimmed with many a tear; Her footstep's elasticity Is timed with grief and fear. The rose has left her hollow cheeks; In low and mournful tone she speaks,

And when she smiles, 'tis but a gleam Of sunshine on a winter's day That faintly beams through dreary clouds, And in a moment dies away. It does not warm, it does not cheer, It makes us sigh for summer days When fields are green and skies are clear, And when the sun has kinder rays.

For three years she has waited there, Still hoping for her lord's return; But vainly she may hope and fear, And vainly watch and weep and mourn. She may wait him till her hairs are grey, And she may wear her life away, But to his lady and his home Her noble lord will never come.

'I wish I knew the worst,' she said, 'I wish I could despair: These fruitless hopes, this constant dread, Are more than I can bear.'

'Then do not hope, and do not weep: He loved thee faithfully, And nothing short of death could keep So true a heart from thee.

Eliza, he would never go And leave thee thus to mourn; He must be dead, for death alone Could hinder his return.'

'Twas thus I spoke, because I felt As if my heart would break To see her thus so slowly pine For Abyerno's sake. But more than that I would not tell, Though all the while I knew so well The time and nature of his death; For when he drew his parting breath His head was pillowed on my knee, And his dark eyes were turned to me With an agonised heart-breaking glance Until they saw me not. Oh! the look of that dying man Can never be forgot―!

>>Alexandrina Zenobia, 1837. >>Anne Brontë, July 10, 1838.

Verses to a Child

VERSES TO A CHILD

Oh, raise those eyes to me again, And smile again so joyously; And fear not, love; it was not pain Nor grief that drew those tears from me. Beloved child! thou canst not tell The thoughts that in my bosom swell Whene'er I look on thee!

Thou knowest not that a glance of thine Can bring back long-departed years, And that thy blue eyes' magic shine Can overflow my own with tears, And that each feature, soft and fair, And every curl of thy golden hair, Some sweet remembrance bears.

Just then thou didst recall to me A distant, long-forgotten scene; One smile, and one sweet word from thee Dispelled the years that rolled between: I was a little child again, And every after joy and pain Seemed never to have been.

Tall forest trees waved over me To hide me from the heat of day, And by my side a child like thee Among the summer flowerets lay. He was thy own, thou merry child: Like thee he spoke, like thee he smiled, Like thee he used to play.

Oh! those were calm and happy days; We loved each other fondly then; But human love too soon decays, And ours can never bloom again. I never thought to see the day When Florian's friendship would decay Like that of colder men.

Now, Flora, thou hast but begun To sail on life's deceitful sea; Oh! do not err as I have done, For I have trusted foolishly The faith of every friend I loved: I never doubted till I proved Their heart's inconstancy.

'Tis mournful to look back upon Those long departed joys and cares, And I will weep since thou alone Art witness to my streaming tears.

This lingering love will not depart: I cannot banish from my heart The friend of childhood's years.

But, though thy father loves me not, Yet shall I still be loved by thee; And, though I am by him forgot, Say, wilt not thou remember me? I will not cause thy heart to ache; For thy regretted father's sake I'll love and cherish thee.

>>Alexandrina Zenobia. >>Anne Brontë, August 21, 1838.

Self-congratulation

SELF-CONGRATULATION

'Ellen, you were thoughtless once Of beauty or of grace, Simple and homely in attire, Careless of form and face. Then whence this change? and wherefore now So often smooth your hair? And wherefore deck your youthful form With such unwearied care?

'Tell us, and cease to tire our ears With that familiar strain; Why will you play those simple tunes So often o'er again?' 'Indeed, dear friends, I can but say That childhood's thoughts are gone; Each year its own new feelings brings, And years move swiftly on:

'And for these little simple airs— I love to play them o'er So much—I dare not promise, now, To play them nevermore.' I answered—and it was enough; They turned them to depart; They could not read my secret thoughts, Nor see my throbbing heart.

I've noticed many a youthful form, Upon whose changeful face The inmost workings of the soul The gazer well might trace; The speaking eye, the changing lip, The ready blushing cheek, The smiling, or beclouded brow, Their different feelings speak.

But, thank God! you might gaze on mine For hours, and never know The secret changes of my soul From joy to keenest woe. Last night, as we sat round the fire, Conversing merrily, We heard, without, approaching steps Of one well known to me!

There was no trembling in my voice, No blush upon my cheek, No lustrous sparkle in my eyes, Of hope, or joy, to speak; But, oh! my spirit burned within, My heart beat full and fast! He came not nigh-he went away- And then my joy was past.

And yet my comrades marked it not: My voice was still the same; They saw me smile, and o'er my face No signs of sadness came. They little knew my hidden thoughts; And they will never know The aching anguish of my heart, The bitter, burning woe!

>>Olivia Vernon. >>Written January 1, 1840. >>Anne Brontë.

The Bluebell

THE BLUEBELL

A fine and subtle spirit dwells In every little flower, Each one its own sweet feeling breathes With more or less of power.

There is a silent eloquence In every wild bluebell, That fills my softened heart with bliss That words could never tell.

Yet I recall, not long ago, A bright and sunny day: 'Twas when I led a toilsome life So many leagues away.

That day along a sunny road All carelessly I strayed Between two banks where smiling flowers Their varied hues displayed.

Before me rose a lofty hill, Behind me lay the sea; My heart was not so heavy then As it was wont to be.

Less harassed than at other times I saw the scene was fair, And spoke and laughed to those around, As if I knew no care.

But as I looked upon the bank, My wandering glances fell Upon a little trembling flower, A single sweet bluebell.

Whence came that rising in my throat, That dimness in my eyes? Why did those burning drops distil, Those bitter feelings rise?

Oh, that lone flower recalled to me My happy childhood's hours, When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts, A prize among the flowers.

Those sunny days of merriment When heart and soul were free, And when I dwelt with kindred hearts That loved and cared for me.

I had not then mid heartless crowds To spend a thankless life, In seeking after others' weal With anxious toil and strife.

'Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times That never may return!' The lovely floweret seemed to say, And thus it made me mourn.

>>Anne Brontë. >>August 22, 1840.

An Orphan's Lament

AN ORPHAN'S LAMENT

She's gone; and twice the summer's sun Has gilt Regina's towers, And melted wild Angora's snows, And warmed Epina's bowers.

The flowerets twice on hill and dale Have bloomed and died away; And twice the rustling forest leaves Have fallen to decay.

And thrice stern winter's icy hand Has checked the rivers' flow, And three times o'er the mountains thrown His spotless robe of snow.

Two summers, springs, and autumns sad, Three winters, cold and grey: And is it then so long ago That wild November day?

They say such tears as children weep Will soon be dried away; That childhood's grief, however strong, Is only for a day;

And parted friends, how dear soe'er, Will soon forgotten be: It may be so with other hearts; It is not so with me.

My mother, thou wilt weep no more, For thou art gone above; But, can I ever cease to mourn Thy fond and fervent love?

While that was mine the world to me Was sunshine bright and fair; No feeling rose within my heart But thou couldst read it there.

And thou couldst feel for all my joys, And all my childish cares, And never weary of my play Or scorn my foolish fears.

Beneath thy sweet maternal smile All pain and sorrow fled; And even the very tears were sweet Upon thy bosom shed.

Thy loss can never be repaired: I shall not know again, While life remains, the peaceful joy That filled my spirit then.

Where shall I find a heart like thine While life remains to me? And where shall I bestow the love I ever bore for thee?

>>January 1, 1841. A. Z. >>Anne Brontë.

Lines Written at Thorp Green

LINES WRITTEN AT THORP GREEN

That summer sun, whose genial glow Now cheers my drooping spirit so, Must cold and silent be, And only light our northern clime With feeble ray, before the time I long so much to see.

And this soft, whispering breeze, that now So gently cools my fevered brow, This too, alas! must turn To a wild blast, whose icy dart Pierces and chills me to the heart, Before I cease to mourn.

And these bright flowers I love so well, Verbena, rose, and sweet bluebell, Must droop and die away; Those thick, green leaves, with all their shade And rustling music, they must fade, And every one decay.

But if the sunny, summer time, And woods and meadows in their prime, Are sweet to them that roam; Far sweeter is the winter bare, With long, dark nights, and landscape drear, To them that are at Home!

>>A. B., August 19, 1841.

Appeal

APPEAL

Оh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe;

My life is very lonely, My days pass heavily, I'm weary of repining; Wilt thou not come to me?

Oh, didst thou know my longings For thee, from day to day, My hopes, so often blighted, Thou wouldst not thus delay!

>>Anne Brontë. >>August 28, 1841.

Despondency

DESPONDENCY

I have gone backward in the work, The labour has not sped; Drowsy and dark my spirit lies, Heavy and dull as lead.

How can I rouse my sinking soul From such a lethargy? How can I break these iron chains And set my spirit free?

There have been times when I have mourned In anguish o'er the past, And raised my suppliant hands on high, While tears fell thick and fast;

And prayed to have my sins forgiven, With such a fervent zeal, An earnest grief, a strong desire, As now I cannot feel.

And vowed to trample on my sins, And called on Heaven to aid My spirit in her firm resolves And hear the vows I made.

And I have felt so full of love, So strong in spirit then, As if my heart would never cool, Or wander back again.

And yet, alas! how many times My feet have gone astray! How oft have I forgot my God! How greatly fallen away!

My sins increase, my love grows cold, And Hope within me dies: Even Faith itself is wavering now; Oh, how shall I arise?

I cannot weep, but I can pray, Then let me not despair; Lord Jesus, save me, lest I die; Christ, hear my humble prayer!

>>December 20, 1841.

To Cowper

TO COWPER

Sweet are thy strains, Celestial Bard; And oft, in childhood's years, I've read them o'er and o'er again, With floods of silent tears.

The language of my inmost heart I traced in every line; My sins, my sorrows, hopes, and fears, Were there-and only mine.

All for myself the sigh would swell, The tear of anguish start; I little knew what wilder woe Had filled the Poet's heart.

I did not know the nights of gloom, The days of misery: The long, long years of dark despair, That crushed and tortured thee.