Emily Jane Brontë: The Complete Poems Edited by Janet Gezari |
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 | Emily Jane Brontë: The Complete Poems |  |
164. M. A. Written on the Dungeon Wall—N. C.
I know that tonight, the wind is sighing,
The soft August wind, over forest and moor
While I in a grave-like chill am lying
On the damp black flags of my dungeon-floor—
The soft August wind, over forest and moor
While I in a grave-like chill am lying
On the damp black flags of my dungeon-floor—
176
I know that the Harvest Moon is shining;
She neither will wax nor wane for me,
Yet I weary, weary, with vain repining,
One gleam of her heaven-bright face to see!
She neither will wax nor wane for me,
Yet I weary, weary, with vain repining,
One gleam of her heaven-bright face to see!
For this constant darkness is wasting the gladness
Fast wasting the gladness of life away;
It gathers up thoughts akin to madness
That never would cloud the world of day
Fast wasting the gladness of life away;
It gathers up thoughts akin to madness
That never would cloud the world of day
I chide with my soul—I bid it cherish
The feelings it lived on when I was free,
But, shrinking it murmurs, ‘Let Memory perish
Forget for thy Friends have forgotten thee!’
The feelings it lived on when I was free,
But, shrinking it murmurs, ‘Let Memory perish
Forget for thy Friends have forgotten thee!’
Alas, I did think that they were weeping
Such tears as I weep—it is not so!
Their careless young eyes are closed in sleeping;
Their brows are unshadowed, undimmed by woe—
Such tears as I weep—it is not so!
Their careless young eyes are closed in sleeping;
Their brows are unshadowed, undimmed by woe—
Might I go to their beds, I'd rouse that slumber,
My spirit should startle their rest, and tell
How hour after hour, I wakefully number
Deep buried from light in my lonely cell!
My spirit should startle their rest, and tell
How hour after hour, I wakefully number
Deep buried from light in my lonely cell!
Yet let them dream on, though dreary dreaming
Would haunt my pillow if they were here
And I were laid warmly under the gleaming
Of that guardian moon and her comrade star—
Would haunt my pillow if they were here
And I were laid warmly under the gleaming
Of that guardian moon and her comrade star—
Better that I my own fate mourning
Should pine alone in the prison-gloom
Than waken free on the summer morning
And feel they were suffering this awful doom
Should pine alone in the prison-gloom
Than waken free on the summer morning
And feel they were suffering this awful doom
| Emily Jane Brontë: The Complete Poems | |