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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
187
And glorious is the gladsome rise
Of June's rejoicing morn;
And who with unregretful eyes
Can watch the lustre leave its skies
To twilight's shade forlorn?
Then art thou not my golden June,
All mist and tempest free?
As shines earth's sun in summer noon
So heaven's sun shines in thee.
Let others seek its beams divine
In cell and cloister drear;
But I have found a fairer shrine
And happier worship here.
By dismal rites they win their bliss,
By penance, fasts and fears;
I have one rite—a gentle kiss;
One penance—tender tears.
O could it thus for ever be,
That I might so adore;
I'd ask for all eternity,
To make a paradise for me,
My love and nothing more.
July 28, 1843.
