Emily Brontë (1818–1848)

‘O DAY! he cannot die

When thou so fair art shining!

O Sun, in such a glorious sky,

So tranquilly declining;

‘He cannot leave thee now,

While fresh west winds are blowing,

And all around his youthful brow

Thy cheerful light is glowing!

‘Edward, awake, awake—

The golden evening gleams

Warm and bright on Arden’s lake—

Arouse thee from thy dreams!

‘Beside thee, on my knee,

My dearest friend, I pray

That thou, to cross the eternal sea,

Wouldst yet one hour delay:

‘I hear its billows roar—

I see them foaming high;

But no glimpse of a further shore

Has blest my straining eye.’…

One long look, that sore reproved me

For the woe I could not bear—

One mute look of suffering moved me

To repent my useless prayer….

Then his eyes began to weary,

Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;

And their orbs grew strangely dreary,

Clouded, even as they would weep.

But they wept not, but they changed not,

Never moved, and never closed;

Troubled still, and still they ranged not—

Wandered not, nor yet reposed!

So I knew that he was dying—

Stooped, and raised his languid head;

Felt no breath, and heard no sighing,

So I knew that he was dead.