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 Death! that struck when I was most confiding
In my certain faith of joy to be -
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing
From the fresh root of Eternity! 

Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,
Full of sap, and full of silver dew;
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.
Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom; Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride; But, within its parent's kindly bosom, Flowed for ever Life's restoring-tide.
Little mourned I for the parted gladness, For the vacant nest and silent song - Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness; Whispering, " Winter will not linger long!" And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing, Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray; Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing, Lavished glory on that second May! High it rose - no winged grief could sweep it; Sin was scared to distance with its shine; Love, and its own life, had power to keep it From all wrong - from every blight but thine! Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish; Evening's gentle air may still restore - No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish - Time, for me, must never blossom more! Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish Where that perished sapling used to be; Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish That from which it sprung - Eternity.

Poem by Emily Brontë
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