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    A Little While, A Little While

    by Emily Bronte
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    A LITTLE while, a little while,
    The weary task is put away,
    And I can sing and I can smile,
    Alike, while I have holiday.

    Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart--
    What thought, what scene invites thee now
    What spot, or near or far apart,
    Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

    There is a spot, 'mid barren hills,
    Where winter howls, and driving rain;
    But, if the dreary tempest chills,
    There is a light that warms again.

    The house is old, the trees are bare,
    Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
    But what on earth is half so dear--
    So longed for--as the hearth of home?

    The mute bird sitting on the stone,
    The dank moss dripping from the wall,
    The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
    I love them--how I love them all!

    Still, as I mused, the naked room,
    The alien firelight died away;
    And from the midst of cheerless gloom,
    I passed to bright, unclouded day.

    A little and a lone green lane
    That opened on a common wide;
    A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
    Of mountains circling every side.

    A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
    So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
    And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
    Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

    THAT was the scene, I knew it well;
    I knew the turfy pathway's sweep,
    That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
    Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

    Could I have lingered but an hour,
    It well had paid a week of toil;
    But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
    Restraint and heavy task recoil.

    Even as I stood with raptured eye,
    Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
    My hour of rest had fleeted by,
    And back came labour, bondage, care.
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