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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
'Play with the scented flower,
The young tree's supple bough,
And leave my human feelings
In their own course to flow.'
The wanderer would not heed me;
Its kiss grew warmer still.
'O come!' it sighed so sweetly;
'I'll win thee 'gainst thy will.
'Were we not friends from childhood?
Have I not loved thee long?
As long as thou, the solemn night,
Whose silence wakes my song.
'And when thy heart is resting
Beneath the church-aisle stone,
I shall have time for mourning,
And thou for being alone.'
