Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/354

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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË

XLIX

May flowers are opening,
And leaves unfolding free;
There are bees in every blossom,
And birds on every tree.


The sun is gladly shining,
The stream sings merrily;
And lonely I am pining,
And all is dark to me.


O cold, cold is my heart!
It will not, cannot rise;
It feels no sympathy
With those refulgent skies.


Dead, dead is my joy,
I long to be at rest;
I wish the damp earth covered
This desolated breast.


If I were quite alone,
It might not be so drear,
When all hope was gone;
At least I could not fear.


But the glad eyes around me
Must weep as mine have done,
And I must see the final gloom
Eclipse their morning sun.