Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/383

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327
POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË

LXVIII

Sleep not, dream not; this bright day
Will not, cannot last for aye;
Bliss like thine is bought by years
Dark with torment and with tears.


Sweeter far than placid pleasure
Purer higher beyond measure
Yet, alas! the sooner turning
Into hopeless, endless mourning.


I love thee, boy, for all divine,
All full of God thy features shine.
Darling enthusiast, holy child,
Too good for this world's warring wild;
Too heavenly now, but doomed to be,
Hell-like in heart and misery.


And what shall change that angel brow,
And quench that spirit's glorious glow?
Relentless laws that disallow
True virtue and true joy below.


I too depart, I too decline,
And make thy path no longer mine.
'Tis thus that human minds will turn,
All doomed alike to sin and mourn;
Yet all with long gaze fixed afar,
Adoring virtue's distant star.

July 26, 1837.