Lines To ——. by Frances Anne Kemble

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Short was the season of our intercourse
And born, it seem’d, of wayward accident,
Yet ne’er before was friendship’s sweet discourse
More sorely needed, or more kindly lent.
The wand’ring winds, that seem no law to know,
Scatter the seed of many a precious flow’r,
And this our love, rooted, I trust, to grow,
Was sown by chance, and sprang in one short hour.
In a drear drought of bitter loneliness,
Parted from friends and kindred far away,
Urging with spirits full of heaviness
The weary hours that crept thro’ each long day,
I little thought, one of those days would hold,
Like a closed casket, hidden wealth untold,
Or that a listless foot, that seem’d to stray
Objectless, on the road where lay my way,
Would strike a sudden spark out of my gloom,
And my low flickering light of hope relume,
Drawing again colour, and form, and tone,
From the dull, faded thing, my life had grown.

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