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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
183
But if to weep above her grave
Be such a priceless boon,
Go, shed thy tears in Ocean's wave
And they will reach it soon.
Yet midst thy wild repining,
Mad though that anguish be,
Think heaven on her is shining
Even as it shines on thee.
With thy mind's vision pierce the deep,
Look now she rests below,
And tell me, why such blessed sleep
Should cause such bitter woe?
May 1, 1843.
