Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/151

Rh The sweet moon through your lattice gleams

And lights your room like day;

And there you pass, in happy dreams,

The peaceful hours away!

While I, with effort hardly quelling

The anguish in my breast,

Wander about the silent dwelling,

And cannot think of rest.

The old clock in the gloomy hall

Ticks on, from hour to hour;

And every time its measured call

Seems lingering slow and slower:

And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star

Has tracked the chilly grey!

What, watching yet! how very far

The morning lies away!

Without your chamber door I stand;

Love, are you slumbering still?

My cold heart, underneath my hand,

Has almost ceased to thrill.

Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs,

And drowns the turret bell,

Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies

Unheard, like my farewell!