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Charlotte Bronte - The Teacher`s Monologue
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THE room is quiet, thoughts alone 
People its mute tranquillity; 
The yoke put on, the long task done,­ 
I am, as it is bliss to be, 
Still and untroubled. Now, I see, 
For the first time, how soft the day 
O`er waveless water, stirless tree, 
Silent and sunny, wings its way. 
Now, as I watch that distant hill, 
So faint, so blue, so far removed, 
Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill, 
That home where I am known and loved: 
It lies beyond; yon azure brow 
Parts me from all Earth holds for me; 
And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow 
Thitherward tending, changelessly. 
My happiest hours, aye ! all the time, 
I love to keep in memory, 
Lapsed among moors, ere life`s first prime 
Decayed to dark anxiety. 

Sometimes, I think a narrow heart
Makes me thus mourn those far away, 
And keeps my love so far apart 
From friends and friendships of to-day; 
Sometimes, I think `tis but a dream 
I measure up so jealously, 
All the sweet thoughts I live on seem 
To vanish into vacancy: 
And then, this strange, coarse world around 
Seems all that`s palpable and true; 
And every sight, and every sound, 
Combines my spirit to subdue 
To aching grief, so void and lone 
Is Life and Earth­so worse than vain, 
The hopes that, in my own heart sown, 
And cherished by such sun and rain 
As Joy and transient Sorrow shed, 
Have ripened to a harvest there: 
Alas ! methinks I hear it said, 
"Thy golden sheaves are empty air." 
All fades away; my very home 
I think will soon be desolate; 
I hear, at times, a warning come
Of bitter partings at its gate; 
And, if I should return and see 
The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair; 
And hear it whispered mournfully, 
That farewells have been spoken there, 
What shall I do, and whither turn ? 
Where look for peace ? When cease to mourn ? 

`Tis not the air I wished to play,
  The strain I wished to sing;
My wilful spirit slipped away
  And struck another string.
I neither wanted smile nor tear,
  Bright joy nor bitter woe,
But just a song that sweet and clear,
  Though haply sad, might flow. 

A quiet song, to solace me
  When sleep refused to come;
A strain to chase despondency,
  When sorrowful for home.
In vain I try; I cannot sing;
  All feels so cold and dead;
No wild distress, no gushing spring
  Of tears in anguish shed; 

But all the impatient gloom of one
  Who waits a distant day,
When, some great task of suffering done,
  Repose shall toil repay.
For youth departs, and pleasure flies,
  And life consumes away,
And youth`s rejoicing ardour dies
  Beneath this drear delay; 

And Patience, weary with her yoke,
  Is yielding to despair,
And Health`s elastic spring is broke 
  Beneath the strain of care. 
Life will be gone ere I have lived;
  Where now is Life`s first prime ?
I`ve worked and studied, longed and grieved,
  Through all that rosy time. 

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,­
  Is such my future fate ?
The morn was dreary, must the eve
  Be also desolate ?
Well, such a life at least makes Death
  A welcome, wished-for friend;
Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,
  To suffer to the end !
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