"But now, - at evening, when I see the round, red sun sink quietly down behind those woody hills, leaving them sleeping in a warm, red, golden haze, I only think another lovely day is lost to him and me; - and at morning, when roused by the flutter and chirp of the sparrows, and the gleeful twitter of the swallows - all intent upon feeding their young, and full of life and joy in their own little frames - I open the window to inhale the balmy, soul-reviving air, and look out upon the lovely landscape, laughing in dew and sunshine, - I too often shame that glorious scene with tears of thankless misery, because he cannot feel its freshening influence..."
Written by Anne Bronte (published in 1848 under the pseudonym Acton Bell)
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