Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/354

298 XLIX

flowers are opening,

And leaves unfolding free;

There are bees in every blossom,

And birds on every tree.

The sun is gladly shining,

The stream sings merrily;

And lonely I am pining,

And all is dark to me.

O cold, cold is my heart!

It will not, cannot rise;

It feels no sympathy

With those refulgent skies.

Dead, dead is my joy,

I long to be at rest;

I wish the damp earth covered

This desolated breast.

If I were quite alone,

It might not be so drear,

When all hope was gone;

At least I could not fear.

But the glad eyes around me

Must weep as mine have done,

And I must see the final gloom

Eclipse their morning sun.