Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/155

Rh And the groves of ancient trees,

In their snowy garb arrayed,

Till they stretch into the gloom

Of the distant valley's shade;

I know thou wouldst rejoice

To inhale this bracing air;

Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep

To behold a scene so fair.

O'er these wintry wilds, alone,

Thou wouldst joy to wander free;

And it will not please thee less,

Though that bliss be shared with me.

.

APOSTASY.

last denial of my faith,

Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;

And, though upon my bed of death,

I call not back a word.

Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,—

Thy sightless saint of stone;

She cannot, from this burning breast,

Wring one repentant moan.