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 Ellen, you were thoughtless once
Of beauty or of grace,
Simple and homely in attire,
Careless of form and face;
Then whence this change? and wherefore now
So often smooth your hair?
And wherefore deck your youthful form 
With such unwearied care? 
Tell us -­ and cease to tire our ears
With that familiar strain -­
Why will you play those simple tunes
So often, o'er again?
'Indeed, dear friends, I can but say
That childhood's thoughts are gone;
Each year its own new feelings brings,
And years move swiftly on: 

'And for these little simple airs --
I love to play them o'er
So much -­ I dare not promise, now,
To play them never more.
' I answered -­ and it was enough; They turned them to depart; They could not read my secret thoughts, Nor see my throbbing heart.
I've noticed many a youthful form, Upon whose changeful face The inmost workings of the soul The gazer well might trace; The speaking eye, the changing lip, The ready blushing cheek, The smiling, or beclouded brow, Their different feelings speak.
But, thank God! you might gaze on mine For hours, and never know The secret changes of my soul From joy to keenest woe.
Last night, as we sat round the fire Conversing merrily, We heard, without, approaching steps Of one well known to me! There was no trembling in my voice, No blush upon my cheek, No lustrous sparkle in my eyes, Of hope, or joy, to speak; But, oh! my spirit burned within, My heart beat full and fast! He came not nigh -­ he went away -­ And then my joy was past.
And yet my comrades marked it not: My voice was still the same; They saw me smile, and o'er my face No signs of sadness came.
They little knew my hidden thoughts; And they will never know The aching anguish of my heart, The bitter burning woe!

Poem by Anne Bronte
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