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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
XXXVI
Still beside that dreary water
Stood beneath the cold moon's ray,
Thinking on the deed of slaughter
On his heart that darkly lay.
Soft the voice that broke his dreaming,
Stealing through the silent air,
Yet before the raven's screaming,
He had heard regardless there.
Once his name was sweetly uttered,
Then the echo died away;
But each pulse in horror fluttered,
As the life would pass away.
