Secret Garden-Sometimes when it rains
An Orphan's Lament
She's gone -- and twice the summer's sun
Two summers springs and autumns sad
And parted friends how dear soe'er
While that was mine the world to me
Beneath thy sweet maternal smile
Where shall I find a heart like thine
Anne Brontë
Has gilt Regina's towers,
And melted wild Angora's snows,
And warmed Exina'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 river's flow,
And three times o'er the mountains thrown
His spotless robe of snow.
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 childish grief however strong
Is only for a day,
Will soon forgotten be;
It may be so with other hearts,
It is not thus with me.
My mother, thou wilt weep no more
For thou art gone above,
But can I ever cease to mourn
Thy good and fervent love?
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.
All pain and sorrow fled,
And even the very tears were sweet
Upon thy bosom shed.
I shall not know again
While life remains, the peaceful joy
That filled my spirit then.
While life remains to me,
And where shall I bestow the love
I ever bore for thee?
Elena shumilova Photography
The Little Orphan
The crowded street his playground is,a patch of blue his sky;
EDGAR ALBERT GUEST
A puddle in a vacant lot his sea where ships pass by:
Poor little orphan boy of five,the city smoke and grime
Taint every cooling breeze he gets throughout the summer time;
And he is just as your boy is,a child who loves to play,
Except that he is drawn and white and cannot get away.
And he would like the open fields,for often in his dreams
The angels kind bear him off to where are pleasant streams,
Where he may sail a splendid boat,sometimes he flies a kite,
Or romps beside a shepherd dog and shouts with all his might;
But when the dawn of morning comes he wakes to find once more
That what he thought were sun-kissed hills are rags upon the floor.
Then through the hot and sultry day he plays at “make-pretend,”
The alley is a sandy beach where all the rich folks send
Their little boys and girls to play,a barrel is his boat,
But,oh,the air is tifling and the dust fills up his throat;
And though he tries so very hard to play,somehow it seems
He never gets such wondrous joys as angels bring in dreams.
Poor little orphan boy of five,except that he is pale,
With sunken cheeks and hollow eyes and very wan and frail,
Just like that little boy of yours,with same desire to play,
Fond of the open fields and skies,he’s built the self-same way;
But kept by fate and circumstance away from shady streams,
His only joy comes when he sleeps and angels bring him dreams.
Magdalena Berney Photography
The Poor Orphan Child
Charlotte Bronte
(From Jane Eyre,chapter three.)
My feet they are sore,and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way,and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.
Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted,and kind angels only
Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.
Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,
Clouds there are none,and clear stars beam mild,
God,in His mercy,protection is showing,
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.
Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing,
Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,
Still will my Father,with promise and blessing,
Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.
There is a thought that for strength should avail me,
Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;
God is a friend to the poor orphan child.'
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