The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë, At such a time, in such a spot

LIII

At such a time, in such a spot,
The world seems made of light,
Our blissful hearts remember not
How surely follows night.

I cannot, Alfred, dream of aught,
That casts a shade of woe;
That heaven is reigning in my thought,
Which wood and wave and earth have caught
From skies that ever flow.

That heaven which my sweet lover's brow
Has won me to adore,
Which from his blue eyes beaming now
Reflects a still intenser glow
Than Native's heaven can pour.

I know our souls are all divine,
I know that when we die
What seems the vilest, even like thine
A part of God himself shall shine
In perfect purity.

But coldly breaks November's day;
Its changes, charmless all,
Unmarked, unloved, they pass away:
We do not wish one hour to stay
Nor sigh at evening's fall.

And glorious is the gladsome rise
Of June's rejoicing morn;
And who with unregretful eyes
Can watch the lustre leave its skies
To twilight's shade forlorn?

Then art thou not my golden June,
All mist and tempest free?
As shines earth's sun in summer noon
So heaven's sun shines in thee.

Let others seek its beams divine
In cell and cloister drear;
But I have found a fairer shrine
And happier worship here.

By dismal rites they win their bliss,
By penance, fasts and fears;
I have one rite—a gentle kiss;
One penance—tender tears.

O could it thus for ever be,
That I might so adore;
I'd ask for all eternity,
To make a paradise for me,
My love and nothing more.

July 28, 1843.

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