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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
313
Now seems as nothing in the single cloud
That shadows it and long has seemed to hover
O'er all the crossing thoughts that overflowed.
In this wrecked spirit, oh! my ocean,
Well may'st thou plough the deep so free and proud:
Thou bear'st the dim tie of ceaseless dreams,
The fount, the confluence of a thousand streams.
