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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
115
XIX
Why do I hate that lone green dell?
Buried in moors and mountains wild,
That is a spot I had loved too well,
Had I but seen it when a child.
There are bones whitening there in the summer heat;
But it is not for that, and none can tell,
None but one can the secret repeat,
Why I hate that lone green dell.
Noble foe, I pardon thee
All thy cold and scornful pride,
For thou wast a priceless friend to me
When my sad heart had none beside.
And leaning on thy generous arm,
A breath of old times over me came;
The earth shone round with a long-lost charm:
Alas! I forgot I was not the same.
Before a day, an hour, passed by,
My spirit knew itself once more;
I saw the gilded visions fly
And leave me as I was before.
May 9, 1838.
