Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/265

Rh Might I go to their beds, I'd rouse that slumber,

My spirit should startle their rest and tell,

How hour after hour, I wakefully number,

Deep buried from light in my lonely cell!

Yet let them dream on; tho' dreary dreaming

Would haunt my pillow if they were here;

And I were laid warmly under the gleaming

Of that guardian moon and her comrade star.

Better that I my own fate mourning,

Should pine alone in this prison gloom;

Then waken free on the summer morning

And feel they were suffering this awful doom.