Sunday, 3 July 2016

In summer's mellow midnight
A cloudless moon shone through
Our open parlour window
And rose-trees wet with dew.
I sat in silent musing_
The soft wind waved my hair,
It told me Heaven was glorious
And sleeping Earth was fair.
I needed not its breathing
To bring such thoughts to me
But still it whispered lowly,
"How dark the woods will be!
"The thick leaves in my murmur
Are rustling like a dream,
And all their myriad voices
Instinct with spirit seem
I said: "Go, gentle singer,
Thy wooing voice is kind,
But do not think its music
Has power to reach my mind.
"Play with the scented flower,
The young tree's supple bough_
And leave my human feelings
In their own course to flow."
The wanderer would not leave me,
Its kiss grew warmer still_
"O come," it sighed so sweetly,
"I'll win thee 'gainst thy will.
"Have we not been from childhood friends?
Have I not loved thee long?
As long as thou hast loved the night
Whose silence wakes my song.
"And when thy heart is laid at rest
Beneath the churchyard stone
I shall have time enough to mourn
And thou to be alone."
©copyright Emily Bronte 1818-1848
(The Night Wind was composed 11-09-1840)

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