Page:Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, 1846).djvu/64

54 Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation,

Which will not weaken, cannot die,

Hasten thy work of desolation,

And let my tortured spirit fly!

Vain as the passing gale, my crying;

Though lightning-struck, I must live on;

I know, at heart, there is no dying

Of love, and ruined hope, alone.

Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour,

Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow,

And many a storm of wildest rigour

Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough.

Rebellious now to blank inertion,

My unused strength demands a task;

Travel, and toil, and full exertion,

Are the last, only boon I ask.

Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming

Of death, and dubious life to come?

I see a nearer beacon gleaming

Over dejection's sea of gloom.

The very wildness of my sorrow

Tells me I yet have innate force;

My track of life has been too narrow,

Effort shall trace a broader course.