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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
XXX
Darkness was overtraced on every face,
Around clouded with storm and ominous gloom;
In hut or hall smiled out no resting-place;
There was no resting-place but one—the tomb!
All our hearths were the mansions of distress,
And no one laughed, and none seemed free from care;
Our children felt their fathers' wretchedness;
Our homes, one, all were shadowed with despair:
It was not fear that made the land so sad.
May 1838.
