Set by John Mitchell (1941-) op. 71 (1989), from Seven Journeys to Earth, part 1, no. 2.
Text by Emily Brontë (1818-1848)
Hope was but a timid friend;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men.
She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars one weary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away!
Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping,
If I listened, she would cease.
False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round;
Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!
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The Beauty of Touch
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