Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/96

42 XVIII

HONOUR'S MARTYR

moon is full this winter night;

The stars are clear though few;

And every window glistens bright

With leaves of frozen dew.

The sweet moon through your lattice gleams,

And lights your room like day;

And there you pass, in happy dreams,

The peaceful hours away!

While I, with effort hardly quelling

The anguish in my breast,

Wander about the silent dwelling,

And cannot think of rest.

The old clock in the gloomy hall

Ticks on, from hour to hour;

And every time its measured call

Seems lingering slow and slower:

And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star

Has tracked the chilly grey!

What, watching yet! how very far

The morning lies away!