Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/117

 HERE again is the same mind in converse with a like abstraction. 'The Night-Wind,' breathing through an open window, has visited an ear which discerned language in its whispers.

V

THE NIGHT-WIND

summer's mellow midnight,

A cloudless moon shone through

Our open parlour window,

And rose-trees wet with dew.

I sat in silent musing;

The soft wind waved my hair;

It told me heaven was glorious,

And sleeping earth was fair.

I needed not its breathing

To bring such thoughts to me;

But still it whispered lowly,

How dark the woods will be!

'The thick leaves in my murmur

Are rustling like a dream,

And all their myriad voices

Instinct with spirit seem.'

I said, 'Go, gentle singer,

Thy wooing voice is kind:

But do not think its music

Has power to reach my mind.