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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
XLIII
It is too late to call thee now,
I will not nurse that dream again;
For every joy that lit my brow
Would bring its after-storm of pain.
Besides the mist is half withdrawn,
The barren mountain-side lies bare,
And sunshine and awaking morn
Paint no more golden visions there.
Yet ever in my grateful breast
Thy darling shade shall cherished be;
For God alone doth know how blessed
My early years have been in thee!
April 1840.
