How Beautiful A Soul

For <a href="" target="_blank">D.W.</a>, who wanted poetry.
O, let me be alone a while,
No human form is nigh.
And may I sing and muse aloud,
No mortal ear is by.
Away! ye dreams of earthly bliss,
Ye earthly cares begone:
Depart! ye restless wandering thoughts,
And let me be alone!
One hour, my spirit, stretch thy wings,
And quit this joyless sod,
Bask in the sunshine of the sky,
And be alone with God!
– Anne Brontë
Two o'clock, Monday, May 28th, 1849. Anne Brontë passed away many miles from her father and her home. She had left for Scarborough four days prior so that her father would not have to go through the grief of watching her die from consumption. She wrote not long before her passing,
<blockquote>I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect… But I wish it would please God to spare me not only for Papa's and Charlotte's sakes, but because I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I have many schemes in my head for future practise, ­humble and limited indeed­, but still I should not like them all to come to nothing, and myself to have lived to so little purpose. But God's will be done. " (The Brontës by Juliet Barker, p 589)</blockquote>
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