Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/373

Rh LXII

o'er his face a solemn light

Comes smiling from the sky,

And shows to sight the lustre bright

Of his uplifted eye;

The aimless, heedless carelessness

Of happy infancy

O'er such a solemn fearfulness

Commingling with his glee,

The parted lips, the golden hair;

Oh who so blest as thee!

Memory! how thy magic fingers,

With a wild and passing thrill,

Wake the cord whose spirit lingers,

Sleeping silently and still,

Fast asleep and almost dying,

Through my days of changeless pain,

Till I dream the strings are lying,

Never to be waked again.

Winds have blown, but all unknown;

Nothing could arouse a tone

In that heart which like a stone

Senselessly has lain.

All seemed over—friend and lover

Strove to waken music there;

Flow the strings their fingers over,

Still in silence swept the air.