Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/208

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The wind I hear it sighing
With autumn's saddest sound;
Withered leaves all thick are lying
As spring-flowers on the ground.

This dark night has won me
To wander far away;
Old feelings gather fast upon me,
Like vultures round their prey.

Kind were they once and cherished,
But cold and cheerless now.
I would their lingering shades had perished
When their light left my brow.

'Tis like old age pretending
The softness of a child,
My altered, hardened spirit bending
To meet their fancies wild.

Yet could I with past pleasures
Past woe's oblivion buy,
That by the death of my dearest treasures
My deadliest pains might die;

O then another daybreak
Might haply dawn above;
Another summer gild my cheek,
My soul, another love.

October 23, 1839.