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A Poem By Anne Bronte


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Weep not too much, my darling;

Sigh not too oft for me;

Say not the face of Nature

Has lost its charm for thee.

I have enough of anguish

In my own breast alone;

Thou canst not ease the burden, Love,

By adding still thine own.

I know the faith and fervour

Of that true heart of thine;

But I would have it hopeful

As thou wouldst render mine.

At night, when I lie waking,

More soothing it will be

To say 'She slumbers calmly now,'

Than say 'She weeps for me.'

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