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26
POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
So, resting on a heathy bank,
I took my heart to me;
And we together sadly sank
Into a reverie.
We thought, 'When winter comes again,
Where will these bright things be?
All vanished, like a vision vain,
An unreal mockery!
'The birds that now so blithely sing,
Through deserts, frozen dry,
Poor spectres of the perished spring,
In famished troops will fly.
'And why should we be glad at all?
The leaf is hardly green,
Before a token of its fall
Is on the surface seen!'
Now, whether it were really so,
I never could be sure;
But as in fit of peevish woe,
I stretched me on the moor,
A thousand thousand gleaming fires
Seemed kindling in the air;
A thousand thousand silvery lyres
Resounded far and near:
