The Bud, Though Plucked, Would Not Be Withered, Only Transplanted To A Fitter Soil To Ripen And Blow Beneath A Brighter Sun; And Though I Might Not Cherish And Watch My Child's Unfolding Intellect, He Would Be Snatched Away From All The Suffering And Sins Of Earth; And My Understanding Tells Me This Would Be No Great Evil; But My Heart Shrinks From The Contemplation Of Such A Possibility, And Whispers I Could Not Bear To See Him Die.
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The Bud, Though Plucked, Would Not Be
Anne Bronte
The Bud, Though Plucked, Would Not Be Withered, Only Transplanted To A Fitter Soil To Ripen And Blow Beneath A Brighter Sun; And Though I Might Not Cherish And Watch My Child's Unfolding Intellect, He Would Be Snatched Away From All The Suffering And Sins Of Earth; And My Understanding Tells Me This Would Be No Great Evil; But My Heart Shrinks From The Contemplation Of Such A Possibility, And Whispers I Could Not Bear To See Him Die.
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