Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/264

208 LIX

that to-night the wind it is sighing,

The soft August wind, over forest and moor;

While I in a grave-like chill am lying

On the damp black flags of my dungeon floor.

I know that the harvest-moon is shining;

She neither will soar nor wane for me;

Yet I weary, weary, with vain repining,

One gleam of her heaven-bright face to see.

For this constant darkness is wasting the gladness,

Fast wasting the gladness of life away;

It gathers up thoughts akin to madness,

That never would cloud the world of day.

I chide with my soul—I bid it cherish

The feelings it lived on when I was free,

But sighing it murmurs, 'Let memory perish,

Forget, for my friends have forgotten me.'

Alas! I did think that they were weeping

Such tears as I weep—it is not so!

Their careless young eyes are closed in sleeping;

Their brows are unshadowed, undimmed by woe.