Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/242

186 LIII

such a time, in such a spot,

The world seems made of light,

Our blissful hearts remember not

How surely follows night.

I cannot, Alfred, dream of aught,

That casts a shade of woe;

That heaven is reigning in my thought,

Which wood and wave and earth have caught

From skies that ever flow.

That heaven which my sweet lover's brow

Has won me to adore,

Which from his blue eyes beaming now

Reflects a still intenser glow

Than Native's heaven can pour.

I know our souls are all divine,

I know that when we die

What seems the vilest, even like thine

A part of God himself shall shine

In perfect purity.

But coldly breaks November's day;

Its changes, charmless all,

Unmarked, unloved, they pass away:

We do not wish one hour to stay

Nor sigh at evening's fall.