Weep Not Too Much by Anne Bronte — Stanza

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Weep Not Too Much

Weep not too much, my darling;

Sigh not too oft for me;

Say not the face of Nature

Has lost its charm for thee.

I have enough of anguish

In my own breast alone;

Thou canst not ease the burden, Love,

By adding still thine own.

I know the faith and fervour

Of that true heart of thine;

But I would have it hopeful

As thou wouldst render mine.

At night, when I lie waking,

More soothing it will be

To say 'She slumbers calmly now,'

Than say 'She weeps for me.'

When through the prison grating

The holy moonbeams shine,

And I am wildly longing

To see the orb divine

Not crossed, deformed, and sullied

By those relentless bars

That will not show the crescent moon,

And scarce the twinkling stars,

It is my only comfort

To think, that unto thee

The sight is not forbidden

The face of heaven is free.

If I could think Zerona

Is gazing upward now

Is gazing with a tearless eye

A calm unruffled brow;

That moon upon her spirit

Sheds sweet, celestial balm,

The thought, like Angel's whisper,

My misery would calm.

And when, at early morning,

A faint flush comes to me,

Reflected from those glowing skies

I almost weep to see;

Or when I catch the murmur

Of gently swaying trees,

Or hear the louder swelling

Of the soul-inspiring breeze,

And pant to feel its freshness

Upon my burning brow,

Or sigh to see the twinkling leaf,

And watch the waving bough;

If, from these fruitless yearnings

Thou wouldst deliver me,

Say that the charms of Nature

Are lovely still to thee;

While I am thus repining,

O! let me but believe,

'These pleasures are not lost to her,'

And I will cease to grieve.

O, scorn not Nature's bounties!

My soul partakes with thee.

Drink bliss from all her fountains,

Drink for thyself and me!

Say not, 'My soul is buried

In dungeon gloom with thine;'

But say, 'His heart is here with me;

His spirit drinks with mine.'