Thorp Green
by Branwell Brontë (1817-1848)

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’!

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