Notes · Poems

A Poem for the Week’s End

There is a spot mid barren hills

Where winter howls and driving rain

But if the dreary tempest chills

There is a light that warms again.


The house is old, the trees are bare

And moonless bends the misty dome

But what on earth is half so dear—

So longed for as the hearth of home?

Emily Brontë


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