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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
267
XXV
The wind was rough which tore
That leaf from its parent tree;
The fate was cruel which bore
The withering corpse to me.
We wander and we have no rest,
It is a dreary way.
What shadow is it
That ever hovers before my eyes?
It has a brow of ghostly whiteness.
November 23, 1839.
