Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/255

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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË

And she was waning fast away—
Even Memory's voice grew dim;
Her former life's eventful day
Had dwindled to a dream;


And hardly could her mind recall
The thought of joy or pain;
That cloud was gathering over all
Which never clears again;


In vain—in vain—you need not gaze
Upon those features now!
That sinking head you need not raise,
Nor kiss that pulseless brow.


Let out the grief that shakes your breath;
Lord Lesley, let it free;
The sternest eye for such a death
Might fill with sympathy.


The tresses, o'er her bosom spread,
Were by a faint breeze blown;
'Her heart is beating,' Lesley said,
'She is not really gone.'


And still that form he fondly pressed,
And still of hope he dreamed,
Nor marked how from his own young breast
Life's crimson current streamed.