Winter stores av Charlotte Brontë

Vi kommer ikke unna minst en av Brontë-søstrene når man skal lage poetisk julekalender. Eldstesøster Charlotte var da kanskje også den som var i den aller beste posisjonen til å få med seg alle av familiens opp- og nedturer, tragiske tap og lykkelige øyeblikk. 

I Winter stores møter vi en kald og hard verden, der man gjør sitt aller beste for å likt et flittig ekorn, samle sammen varme minner som kan holde en åndelig mett gjennom sjelens vinter. 

Og er det noe julen handler om, er det å samle sammen alle små ting man liker for å skape et lunt, lite rede for denne syklusens fimbulvinter.

Winter stores

We take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care,
From tears and sadness free.

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow
  And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
  The sunshine of the heart.

Existence seems a summer eve,
  Warm, soft, and full of peace;
Our free, unfettered feelings give
  The soul its full release.

A moment, then, it takes the power,
  To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowed hour,
  This life’s divinest glow.

But Time, though viewlessly it flies,
  And slowly, will not stay;
Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
  It cleaves its silent way.

Alike the bitter cup of grief,
  Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
  For baffled lips to kiss.

The sparkling draught is dried away,
  The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
  » Ho, lingerer, hasten on !»

And has the soul, then, only gained,
  From this brief time of ease,
A moment’s rest, when overstrained,
  One hurried glimpse of peace ?

No; while the sun shone kindly o’er us,
  And flowers bloomed round our feet,–
While many a bud of joy before us
  Unclosed its petals sweet,–

An unseen work within was plying;
  Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
  Laboured one faculty,–

Thoughtful for Winter’s future sorrow,
  Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
  Toiled quiet Memory.

‘Tis she that from each transient pleasure
  Extracts a lasting good;
‘Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure
  To serve for winter’s food.

And when Youth’s summer day is vanished,
  And Age brings Winter’s stress,
Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
  Life’s evening hours will bless.

Charlotte Brontë