The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë, Far, far is mirth withdrawn

XLII

Far, far is mirth withdrawn;
'Tis three long hours before the morn,
And I watch lonely, drearily;
So come, thou shade, commune with me.

Deserted one! thy corpse lies cold
And mingled with a foreign mould.
Year after year the grass grows green
Above the dust where thou hast been.

I will not name thy blighted name,
Tarnished by unforgotten shame,
Though not because my bosom torn
Joins the mad world in all its scorn.

Thy phantom face is dark with woe,
Tears have left ghastly traces there,
Those ceaseless tears! I wish their flow
Could quench thy wild despair.

They deluge my heart like the rain
On cursed Zamornah's howling plain.
Yet when I hear thy foes deride,
I must cling closely to thy side.

Our mutual foes! They will not rest
From trampling on thy buried breast.
Glutting their hatred with the doom,
They picture thine beyond the tomb.

But God is not like human kind,
Man cannot read the Almighty mind;
Vengeance will never tortue thee,
Nor hunt thy soul eternally.

Then do not in this night of grief,
This time of overwhelming fear,
O do not think that God can leave
Forget, forsake, refuse to hear!

What have I dreamt? He lies asleep,
With whom my heart would vainly weep;
He rests, and I endure the woe,
That left his spirit long ago.

March 1840.

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