The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/'Twas one of those dark, cloudy days
XXIII
'Twas one of those dark, cloudy days
That sometimes come in summer blaze,
When heaven drops not, when earth is still,
And deeper green is on the hill.
That sometimes come in summer blaze,
When heaven drops not, when earth is still,
And deeper green is on the hill.
Lonely at her window sitting
While the evening steals away,
Fitful winds foreboding, flitting
Through a sky of cloudy grey.
While the evening steals away,
Fitful winds foreboding, flitting
Through a sky of cloudy grey.
There are two trees in a lonely field,
They breathe a spell to me;
A dreary thought their dark boughs yield,
All waving solemnly.
•••••
What is that smoke that ever still
Comes rolling down the dark brown hill?
They breathe a spell to me;
A dreary thought their dark boughs yield,
All waving solemnly.
•••••
What is that smoke that ever still
Comes rolling down the dark brown hill?
Still as she spoke the ebon clouds
Would part and sunlight shone between,
But dreary, strange, and pale and cold.
•••••
Away, away, resign thee now
To scenes of gloom and thoughts of fear;
I trace the figure on thy brow,
Welcome at last, though once so drear.
Would part and sunlight shone between,
But dreary, strange, and pale and cold.
•••••
Away, away, resign thee now
To scenes of gloom and thoughts of fear;
I trace the figure on thy brow,
Welcome at last, though once so drear.
It will not shine again,
Its sad course is done;
I have seen the last ray wane
Of the cold, bright sun.
Its sad course is done;
I have seen the last ray wane
Of the cold, bright sun.
None but me beheld him dying,
Parting with the parting day;
Wind of evening, sadly sighing,
Bore his soul from earth away.
Parting with the parting day;
Wind of evening, sadly sighing,
Bore his soul from earth away.
Coldly, bleakly, dreamily
Evening died on Elbe's shore;
Winds were in the cloudy sky,
Sighing, mourning ever more.
Evening died on Elbe's shore;
Winds were in the cloudy sky,
Sighing, mourning ever more.
Old hall of Elbe, ruined, lonely now,
Home to which the voice of life shall never more return;
Chambers roofless, desolate, where weeds and ivy grow;
Windows through whose broken panes the night-winds coldly mourn—
Home of the departed, the long-departed dead.
Home to which the voice of life shall never more return;
Chambers roofless, desolate, where weeds and ivy grow;
Windows through whose broken panes the night-winds coldly mourn—
Home of the departed, the long-departed dead.
June 1838.