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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
123
It will not shine again,
Its sad course is done;
I have seen the last ray wane
Of the cold, bright sun.
Its sad course is done;
I have seen the last ray wane
Of the cold, bright sun.
None but me beheld him dying,
Parting with the parting day;
Wind of evening, sadly sighing,
Bore his soul from earth away.
Parting with the parting day;
Wind of evening, sadly sighing,
Bore his soul from earth away.
Coldly, bleakly, dreamily
Evening died on Elbe's shore;
Winds were in the cloudy sky,
Sighing, mourning ever more.
Evening died on Elbe's shore;
Winds were in the cloudy sky,
Sighing, mourning ever more.
Old hall of Elbe, ruined, lonely now,
Home to which the voice of life shall never more return;
Chambers roofless, desolate, where weeds and ivy grow;
Windows through whose broken panes the night-winds coldly mourn—
Home of the departed, the long-departed dead.
Home to which the voice of life shall never more return;
Chambers roofless, desolate, where weeds and ivy grow;
Windows through whose broken panes the night-winds coldly mourn—
Home of the departed, the long-departed dead.
June 1838.
