Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/114

58 For the moors, where the linnet was trilling

Its song on the old granite stone;

Where the lark, the wild skylark, was filling

Every breast with delight like its own!

What language can utter the feeling

Which rose, when in exile afar,

On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,

I saw the brown heath growing there?

It was scattered and stunted, and told me

That soon even that would be gone:

It whispered, 'The grim walls enfold me,

I have bloomed in my last summer's sun.'

But not the loved music, whose waking

Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,

Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking

Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.

The spirit which bent 'neath its power,

How it longed—how it burned to be free!

If I could have wept in that hour,

Those tears had been heaven to me.

Well—well; the sad minutes are moving,

Though loaded with trouble and pain;

And some time the loved and the loving

Shall meet on the mountains again!