Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/169

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
113
POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË

XVIII

O wander not so far away!
O love, forgive this selfish tear;
It may be sad for thee to stay,
But how can I live lonely here?


The still May morn is warm and bright,
Young flowers are fresh, and grass is green,
And in the haze of glorious light
Our long low hills are scarcely seen.


Our woods—e'en now their young leaves hide
Where blackbird and the throstle dwell;
And high in heaven so blue and wide
A thousand strains of Music swell.


He looks on all with eyes that speak
So deep, so drear a woe to me!
There is a faint red on his cheek
Unlike the bloom I like to see.


Call Death—yes Death he is mine own,
The grave must close those limbs around,
And hush, for ever hush the tone,
I loved above all earthly sound.


Well! pass away with the other flowers;
Too dark for them, too dark for thee
Are the hours to come, the joyless hours,
That time is treasuring up for me.