Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/130

74 All the flowers are praying

For sun, before they close,

And he prays too—unconscious—

That sunless human rose.

Blossom—that the west-wind

Has never wooed to blow,

Scentless are thy petals,

Thy dew is cold as snow!

Soul—where kindred kindness,

No early promise woke,

Barren is thy beauty,

As weed upon a rock.

Wither—soul and blossom!

You both were vainly given:

Earth reserves no blessing

For the unblest of heaven!