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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
XXXVIII
Fair sinks the summer evening now
In scattered glory round;
The sky upon its holy brow
Wears not a cloud that speaks of gloom.
The old tower, shrined in golden light,
Looks down on the descending sun;
So softly evening blends with night,
You scarce can say when day is done.
And this is just the joyous hour
When we were wont to burst away
T' escape from labour's tyrant power
And cheerfully go out to play.
Then why is all so sad and lone?
No merry footstep on the stair,
No laugh, no heart-awaking tone,
But voiceless silence everywhere.
I've wandered round our garden ground,[1]
And still it seemed at every turn
That I should greet approaching feet,
And words upon the breezes hung.
- ↑ Stanzas 5 and 6 have been crossed out in the manuscript.
