Frances (Charlotte Bronte Poem)
SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams ...
SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams ...
I. THE GARDEN. ABOVE the city hung the moon, Right o'er a plot of ground Where flowers and orchard-trees were ...
What is she writing? Watch her now, How fast her fingers move ! How eagerly her youthful brow Is bent ...
BUT two miles more, and then we rest ! Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the ...
I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall The crash ...
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