Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/113

Rh It is swelled with the first snowy weather;

The rocks they are icy and hoar,

And sullenly waves the long heather,

And the fern leaves are sunny no more.

There are no yellow stars on the mountain;

The bluebells have long died away

From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain—

From the side of the wintry brae.

But lovelier than corn-fields all waving

In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,

Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,

And the crags where I wandered of old.

It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;

How sweetly it brought back to me

The time when nor labour nor dreaming

Broke the sleep of the happy and free!

But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven

Was melting to amber and blue,

And swift were the wings to our feet given,

As we traversed the meadows of dew.

For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass

Like velvet beneath us should lie!

For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass

Rose sunny against the clear sky!