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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
I pondered not, I drew the bar,
An icy glory caught mine eye,
From that wide heaven where every star
Stared like a dying memory.
And there the great Cathedral rose,
Discrowned but most majestic so,
It looked down in serene repose
On its own realm of buried woe.
'Tis evening now, the sun decends
In golden glory down the sky;
The city's murmur softly blends
With zephyrs breathing gently by.
And yet it seems a dreary moor,
A dark, October moor to me;
And black the piles of rain-clouds lour
Athwart heaven's stormy canopy.
October 14, 1837.
