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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
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That wind, I used to hear it swelling
With joy divinely deep;
You might have seen my hot tears welling,
But rapture made me weep.
I used to love on winter nights
To lie and dream alone
Of all the hopes and real delights
My early years had known.
And oh! above the best of those
That coming time should bear,
Like heaven's own glorious stars they rose,
Still beaming bright and fair.
November 28, 1839.
