chapter
Poems by Anne Bronte·
Pages 26

I'm buried now; I've done with life; I've done with hate, revenge, and strife; I've done with joy, and hope, and love, And all the bustling world above.

No hope, no pleasure can I find; I am grown weary of my mind; Often in balmy sleep I try To gain a rest from misery,

I dream of liberty 'tis true, But then I dream of sorrow too, Of blood and guilt and horrid woes, Of tortured friends and happy foes;

That world - that when I wake and see, Those dreary phantoms fade and flee, Even in my dungeon I can smile, And taste of joy a little while.