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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
All the flowers are praying
For sun, before they close,
And he prays too—unconscious—
That sunless human rose.
Blossom—that the west-wind
Has never wooed to blow,
Scentless are thy petals,
Thy dew is cold as snow!
Soul—where kindred kindness,
No early promise woke,
Barren is thy beauty,
As weed upon a rock.
Wither—soul and blossom!
You both were vainly given:
Earth reserves no blessing
For the unblest of heaven!
