A Little While by Emily Bronte

A little while, a little while,The weary task is put away,And I can sing and I can smile,Alike, while I have holiday.Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,What thought, what scene invites thee now?What spot, or near or far,Has rest for thee, my weary brow?There is a spot, mid barren hills,Where winter howls, and driving rain;But if the dreary tempest chills,There is a light that warms again.The house is old, the trees are bare,Moonless above bends twilight's dome;But what on earth is half so dear,So longed for, as the hearth of home?The mute bird sitting on the stone,The dank moss dripping from the wall,The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,I love them, how I love them all!Still, as I mused, the naked room,The alien firelight died away,And from the midst of cheerless gloomI passed to bright unclouded day.A little and a lone green laneThat opened on a common wide;A distant, dreamy, dim blue chainOf mountains circling every side;A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;And, deepening still the dream-like charm,Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.That was the scene, I knew it well;I knew the turfy pathway's sweepThat, winding o'er each billowy swell,Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.Could I have lingered but an hour,It well had paid a week of toil;But Truth has banished Fancy's power:Restraint and heavy task recoil.Even as I stood with raptured eye,Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,My hour of rest had fleeted by,And back came labour, bondage, care.