The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë, It was night, and on the mountains

LXIV

It was night, and on the mountains
Fathoms deep the snowdrifts lay;
Streams and waterfalls and fountains
Down the darkness stole away.

Long ago the hopeless peasant
Left his sheep all buried there,
Sheep that through the summer pleasant
He had watched with tend'rest care.

Now no more a cheerful ranger
Following pathways known of yore
Sad he stood, a wild-eyed stranger,
On his own unbounded moor.

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