Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/221

Rh XLVI

around me piteous tombstones grey

Stretching their shadows far away.

Beneath the turf my footsteps tread

Lie low and lone the silent dead;

Beneath the turf, beneath the mould,

Forever dark, forever cold.

And my eyes cannot hold the tears

That memory hoards from vanished years.

For time and Death and mortal pain

Give wounds that will not heal again.

Let me remember half the woes

I've seen and heard and felt below,

And heaven itself, so pure and blest,

Could never give my spirit rest.

Sweet land of light! Thy children fair

Know nought akin to our despair;

Nor have they felt, nor can they tell

What tenants haunt each mortal cell,

What gloomy guests we hold within,

Torments and madness, tear and sin!

Well, may they live in ectasy

Their long eternity of joy;

At least we would not bring them down

With us to weep, with us to groan.

No, Earth would wish no other sphere

To taste her cup of suffering drear;

She turns from heaven with a tearless eye

And only mourns that we must die!