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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
LX
A thousand sounds of happiness
And only one of real distress,
One hardly uttered groan;
But that has hushed all vocal joy,
Eclipsed the glory of the sky,
And made me think that misery
Rules in our world alone!
About his face the sunshine glows,
And in his hair the south wind blows,
And violet and wild woodrose
Are sweetly breathing near;
Nothing without suggests dismay,
If he could force his mind away
From tracking farther day by day,
The desert of despair.
Too truly agonised to weep,
His eyes are motionless as sleep;
His frequent sighs, long-drawn and deep,
Are anguish to my ear.
And I would soothe—but can I call
The cold corpse from its funeral pall,
And cause a gleam of hope to fall
With my consoling tear?
