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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
XLII
Mild the mist upon the hill,
Telling not of storms to-morrow;
No, the day has wept its fill,
Spent its store of silent sorrow.
Oh, I'm gone back to the days of youth,
I am a child once more,
And 'neath my father's sheltering roof
And near the old hall door,
I watch this cloudy evening fall,
After a day of rain;
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall
The horizon's mountain chain.
The damp stands in the long, green grass
As thick as morning's tears;
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass
That breathe of other years.
July 27, 1839.
