Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/154

98 And now it's come. This evening fell

Not stormily, but stilly drear;

A sound sweeps o'er thee like a knell

To banish joy and welcome care.

A fluttering blast that shakes the leaves

And whistles round the gloomy wall,

And lingering long, and thinking grieves,

For 'tis the spectre's call.

He hears me: what a sudden start

Sent the blood icy to the heart;

He wakens, and how gastly white

That face looks in the dim lamp-light.

Those tiny hands in vain essay

To brush the shadowy fiend away;

There is a horror on his brow,

An anguish in his bosom now;

A fearful anguish in his eyes,

Fixed strainedly on the vacant air;

Hoarsely bursts in long-drawn sighs,

His panting breath enchained by fear.

Poor child! if spirits such as I

Could weep o'er human misery,

A tear might flow, ay, many a tear,

To see the head that lies before,

To see the sunshine disappear;