Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MY CLOSET, by ANNA MARIA WELLS



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MY CLOSET, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Within my chamber's bounds it lay
Last Line: Alas! For ever.
Alternate Author Name(s): Wells, A. M.


WITHIN my chamber's bounds it lay,
For years it was my haunt by day;
There half the summer night I'd stay,
With lingering pleasure.
I loved it chiefly that 't was mine;
There first my fancy learn'd to twine
Poetic flowers, -- not quite divine, --
A hidden treasure.

It was the quietest of nooks; --
How well I can recall its looks.
One side just held my hoard of books.
A dear deposit;
One window, veil'd by curtains fair,
Gave entrance to the summer air;
Beside it stood my desk and chair:
My pretty closet.

When memory's harp had ceased to ring,
And vainly I essay'd the string,
There thought could oft its music bring,
With sweet revealing.
And there at lonely hour of night,
I used to watch the moonbeams bright,
Throwing their wreaths of silver light
Along the ceiling.

In summer, when the fields were green,
And bending boughs my window-screen,
Ah me! how happy I have been,
Free from intrusion;
While oft of flattery's pleasing snare,
And oft of hope's delusions fair,
Reflection taught me to beware,
In that seclusion.

There, with one friend, delightful flew
Hours of sweet converse not a few;
The snug retreat, 't would hold but two,
So narrow was it;
And yet a cozy place to sit,
Though leaning back the shelves we hit,
And forward scarce avoided it;
My little closet.

It was the homestead of my mind;
For there its thoughts were first combined,
And elsewhere I shall never find
Just such another!
'T was there I ran and closed the door
'Gainst one who ill such usage bore,
A playful child, -- ah! now no more --
My petted brother!

And there with mingled joy and pain,
To con their tasks and con again,
I taught my little sisters twain,
For ever busy;
Just out the closet door they sat,
And mischief oft they would be at;
I loved them dearly for all that,
Fanny and Lizzie!

There, when my heart was sick with grief,
Finding its youthful joys so brief,
In prayer I sought a sure relief,
Denied me never.
Ah! sad to my young heart the day,
When, lingering still with fond delay,
I wept, and turn'd me thence away,
Alas! for ever.





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