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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
What made her weep, what made her glide
Out to the park this dreary day,
And cast her jewelled chains aside,
And seek a rough and lonely way;
And down beneath a cedar's shade,
On the wet grass regardless lie,
With nothing but its gloomy head
Between her and the showering sky?
I saw her stand in the gallery long,
Watching those little children there,
As they were playing the pillars among
And bounding down the marble stair.
August 13, 1839.
