Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/312

256 I pondered not, I drew the bar,

An icy glory caught mine eye,

From that wide heaven where every star

Stared like a dying memory.

And there the great Cathedral rose,

Discrowned but most majestic so,

It looked down in serene repose

On its own realm of buried woe.

'Tis evening now, the sun decends

In golden glory down the sky;

The city's murmur softly blends

With zephyrs breathing gently by.

And yet it seems a dreary moor,

A dark, October moor to me;

And black the piles of rain-clouds lour

Athwart heaven's stormy canopy.