Emily Jane Brontë: The Complete Poems Edited by Janet Gezari |
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 | Emily Jane Brontë: The Complete Poems |  |
Was it a deadly swoon?
Or was her spirit really gone?
And the cold corpse, beneath the moon
Laid like another mass of dust and stone?
Or was her spirit really gone?
And the cold corpse, beneath the moon
Laid like another mass of dust and stone?
The moon was full that night
The sky was almost like the day:
You might have seen the pulse's play
Upon her forehead white;
The sky was almost like the day:
You might have seen the pulse's play
Upon her forehead white;
You might have seen the dear, dear sign of life
In her uncovered eye
And her cheek changing in the mortal strife
Betwixt the pain to live and agony to die.
In her uncovered eye
And her cheek changing in the mortal strife
Betwixt the pain to live and agony to die.
But nothing mutable was there!
The face, all deadly fair,
Showed a fixed impress of keen suffering past,
And the raised lid did show
No wandering gleam below
But a stark anguish, self-destroyed at last—
The face, all deadly fair,
Showed a fixed impress of keen suffering past,
And the raised lid did show
No wandering gleam below
But a stark anguish, self-destroyed at last—
Long he gazed and held his breath,
Kneeling on the blood-stained heath;
Long he gazed those lids beneath
Looking into Death!
Kneeling on the blood-stained heath;
Long he gazed those lids beneath
Looking into Death!
Not a word from his followers fell,
They stood by, mute and pale;
That black treason uttered well
Its own heart-harrowing tale—
They stood by, mute and pale;
That black treason uttered well
Its own heart-harrowing tale—
167
But earth was bathed in other gore:
There were crimson drops across the moor
And Lord Eldred, glancing round
Saw those tokens on the ground:
There were crimson drops across the moor
And Lord Eldred, glancing round
Saw those tokens on the ground:
‘Bring him back!’ he hoarsely said,
‘Wounded is the traitor fled—
Vengeance may hold but minutes brief
And you have all your lives for grief—’
‘Wounded is the traitor fled—
Vengeance may hold but minutes brief
And you have all your lives for grief—’
He is left alone—he sees the stars
Their quiet course continuing
And, far away, down Elmor scars
He hears the stream its waters fling:
Their quiet course continuing
And, far away, down Elmor scars
He hears the stream its waters fling:
That lulling monotone did sing
Of broken rock and shaggy glen,
Of welcome for the moorcock's wing,
But, not of wail for men!
Of broken rock and shaggy glen,
Of welcome for the moorcock's wing,
But, not of wail for men!
| Emily Jane Brontë: The Complete Poems | |