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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
XX
AT CASTLE WOOD
The day is done, the winter sun
Is setting in its sullen sky,
And drear the course that has been run,
And dim the hearts that slowly die.
No star will light my coming night,
No morn of hope for me will shine;
I mourn not Heaven would blast my sight
And I never longed for joys divine.
Through life's hard task I did not ask
Celestial aid, celestial cheer;
I saw my fate without its mask,
And met it too without a tear.
The grief that prest my aching breast
Was heavier far than earth can be;
And who would dread eternal rest
When labour's hour was agony?
Dark falls the fear of this despair
On spirits born of happiness;
But I was bred the mate of care,
The foster-child of sore distress.
