Page:Emily Bronte (Robinson 1883).djvu/95

Rh The mute bird sitting on the stone,

The dark moss dripping from the wall,

The thorn-tree gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,

I love them; how I love them all!

And, as I mused, the naked room,

The alien fire-light died away;

And from the midst of cheerless gloom

I passed to bright, unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane,

That opened on a common wide;

A distant, dreary, dim, blue chain

Of mountains circling every side:

A heaven so dear, an earth so calm,

So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;

And—deepening still the dream-like charm—

Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;

I knew the turfy pathway's sweep,

That, winding o'er each billowy swell,

Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,

It well had paid a week of toil;

But truth has banished fancy's power,

Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,

Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,

My hour of rest had fleeted by,

And back came labour, bondage, care."

Charlotte meanwhile writes in good, even in high spirits to her friend: "I think I am never unhappy, my present life is so delightful, so congenial, compared to that of a governess. My time, constantly occupied, passes too rapidly. Hitherto both Emily and I have had good health, and therefore we have been able to work well. There is one individual of whom I have not