AT CASTLE WOOD BY EMILY BRONTE
The day is done, the winter sun
Is setting in its sullen sky;
And drear the course that has been run,
And dim the beams that slowly die.
No star will light my coming night;
No moon of hope for me will shine;
I mourn not Heaven would blast my sight,
And I never longed for ways divine.
Through Life's hard task I did not ask
Celestial aid, celestial cheer:
I saw my fate without its mask,
And met it too without a tear.
The grief that prest this living breast
Was heavier far than earth can be;
And who would dread eternal rest
When labour's hire was agony?
Dark falls the fear of this despair
On spirits born for happiness;
But I was bred the mate of care,
The foster-child of sore distress.
No sighs for me, no sympathy,
No wish to keep my souls below;
The heart is dead since infancy,
Unwept-for let the body go.
©Emily Bronte (poem written 2nd Feb. 1844)
