The swifter soul is gone before,
It treads a forest wide,
Where bowers are bending to the shore
And gazing on the tide.
And one is there—I know the voice,
The thrilling, stirring tone,
That makes his bounding pulse rejoice,
Yet makes not his alone.
Mine own hand longs to clasp her hand,
Mine eye to meet her eye;
The white sails win Zorayda's strand,
And flout against her sky.
September 17, 1840, E.J. Brontë.