Home. Acton Bell by Charlotte Brontë

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How brightly glistening in the sun / The woodland ivy plays! / While yonder beeches from their barks / Reflect his silver rays.

That sun surveys a lovely scene / From softly smiling skies; / And wildly through unnumbered trees / The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, / And now in distance dies. / But give me back my barren hills / Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees / Can yield an answering swell, / But where a wilderness of heath / Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide, / With groves of evergreen, / Long winding walks, and borders trim, / And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot, / With gray walls compassed round, / Where knotted grass neglected lies, / And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high / Invites the foot to roam, / And though its halls are fair within -- / Oh, give me back my HOME!

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