Emily Brontë (एमिली ब्रॉन्टे)

Death! that struck when I was most confiding,In my certain faith of joy to be -.

Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing,From the fresh root of Eternity!.

Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,Full of sap, and full of silver dew.

Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly,Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.

Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom,Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride.

But, within its parent's kindly bosom,Flowed for ever Life's restoring-tide.

Little mourned I for the parted gladness,For the vacant nest and silent song -.

Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness,Whispering, " Winter will not linger long!".

And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing,Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray.

Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing,Lavished glory on that second May!.

High it rose - no winged grief could sweep it,Sin was scared to distance with its shine.

Love, and its own life, had power to keep it,From all wrong - from every blight but thine!.

Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish,Evening's gentle air may still restore -.

No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish -,Time, for me, must never blossom more!.

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish,Where that perished sapling used to be.

Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish,That from which it sprung - Eternity.

The winter wind is loud and wild,Come close to me, my darling child.

Forsake thy books, and mateless play,And, while the night is gathering grey.

We'll talk its pensive hours away;--,'Ierne, round our sheltered hall.

November's gusts unheeded call,Not one faint breath can enter here.

Enough to wave my daughter's hair,And I am glad to watch the blaze.

Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays,To feel her cheek so softly pressed.

In happy quiet on my breast,'But, yet, even this tranquillity.

Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me,And, in the red fire's cheerful glow.

I think of deep glens, blocked with snow,I dream of moor, and misty hill.

Where evening closes dark and chill,For, lone, among the mountains cold.

Lie those that I have loved of old,And my heart aches, in hopeless pain.

Exhausted with repinings vain,That I shall greet them ne'er again!'.

'Father, in early infancy,When you were far beyond the sea.

Such thoughts were tyrants over me!,I often sat, for hours together.

Through the long nights of angry weather,Raised on my pillow, to descry.

The dim moon struggling in the sky,Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock.

Of rock with wave, and wave with rock,So would I fearful vigil keep.

And, all for listening, never sleep,But this world's life has much to dread.

Not so, my Father, with the dead,'Oh! not for them, should we despair.

The grave is drear, but they are not there,Their dust is mingled with the sod.

Their happy souls are gone to God!,You told me this, and yet you sigh.

And murmur that your friends must die,Ah! my dear father, tell me why?.

For, if your former words were true,How useless would such sorrow be.

As wise, to mourn the seed which grew,Unnoticed on its parent tree.

Because it fell in fertile earth,And sprang up to a glorious birth--.

Struck deep its root, and lifted high,Its green boughs, in the breezy sky.

'But, I'll not fear, I will not weep,For those whose bodies rest in sleep,--.

I know there is a blessed shore,Opening its ports for me, and mine.

And, gazing Time's wide waters o'er,I weary for that land divine.

Where we were born, where you and I,Shall meet our Dearest, when we die.

From suffering and corruption free,Restored into the Deity.'.

'Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child!,And wiser than thy sire.

And worldly tempests, raging wild,Shall strengthen thy desire--.

Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam,Through wind and ocean's roar.

To reach, at last, the eternal home,The steadfast, changeless, shore!'.

The night is darkening round me,The wild winds coldly blow.

But a tyrant spell has bound me,And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending,Their bare boughs weighed with snow.

The storm is fast descending,And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,Wastes beyond wastes below.

But nothing drear can move me,I will not, cannot go.

On a sunny brae, alone I lay,One summer afternoon.

It was the marriage-time of May,With her young lover, June.

From her mother's heart, seemed loath to part,That queen of bridal charms.

But her father smiled on the fairest child,He ever held in his arms.

The trees did wave their plumy crests,The glad birds caroled clear.

And I, of all the wedding guests,Was only sullen there!.

There was not one, but wished to shun,My aspect void of cheer.

The very grey rocks, looking on,Asked, "What do you here?".

And I could utter no reply,In sooth, I did not know.

Why I had brought a clouded eye,To greet the general glow.

So, resting on a heathy bank,I took my heart to me.

And we together sadly sank,Into a reverie.

We thought, "When winter comes again,Where will these bright things be?.

All vanished, like a vision vain,An unreal mockery!.

The birds that now so blithely sing,Through deserts, frozen dry.

Poor spectres of the perished spring,In famished troops, will fly.

And why should we be glad at all?,The leaf is hardly green.

Before a token of its fall,Is on the surface seen!".

Now, whether it were really so,I never could be sure.

But as in fit of peevish woe,I stretched me on the moor.

A thousand thousand gleaming fires,Seemed kindling in the air.

A thousand thousand silvery lyres,Resounded far and near.

Methought, the very breath I breathed,Was full of sparks divine.

And all my heather-couch was wreathed,By that celestial shine!.

And, while the wide earth echoing rung,To their strange minstrelsy.

The little glittering spirits sung,Or seemed to sing, to me.

"O mortal! mortal! let them die,Let time and tears destroy.

That we may overflow the sky,With universal joy!.

Let grief distract the sufferer's breast,And night obscure his way.

They hasten him to endless rest,And everlasting day.

To thee the world is like a tomb,A desert's naked shore.

To us, in unimagined bloom,It brightens more and more!.

And could we lift the veil, and give,One brief glimpse to thine eye.

Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live,Because they live to die.".

The music ceased; the noonday dream,Like dream of night, withdrew.

But Fancy, still, will sometimes deem,Her fond creation true.

Hope was but a timid friend,She sat without the grated den.

Watching how my fate would tend,Even as selfish-hearted men.

She was cruel in her fear,Through the bars, one dreary day.

I looked out to see her there,And she turned her face away!.

Like a false guard, false watch keeping,Still, in strife, she whispered peace.

She would sing while I was weeping,If I listened, she would cease.

False she was, and unrelenting,When my last joys strewed the ground.

Even Sorrow saw, repenting,Those sad relics scattered round.