Emily Brontë (1818–1848)

THE LINNET in the rocky dells,

The moor-lark in the air,

The bee among the heather bells

That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast;

The wild birds raise their brood;

And they, her smiles of love caress’d,

Have left her solitude!

I ween that when the grave’s dark wall

Did first her form retain,

They thought their hearts could ne’er recall

The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow

Uncheck’d through future years;

But where is all their anguish now?

And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honour’s breath,

Or pleasure’s shade pursue—

The dweller in the land of death

Is changed and careless too.

And if their eyes should watch and weep

Till sorrow’s source were dry,

She would not, in her tranquil sleep,

Return a single sigh?

Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound:

And murmur, summer streams!

There is no need of other sound

To soothe my lady’s dreams.