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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
9
I ne'er had called oblivion blest,
Nor stretching eager hands to death,
Implored to change for senseless rest
This sentient soul, this living breath—
Oh, let me die—that power and will
Their cruel strife may close;
And conquered good, and conquering ill
Be lost in one repose!'
The date of this poem as given by Miss Robinson is October 1845.—Ed.
