The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë, Light up thy halls! 'Tis closing day

XXVIII

Light up thy halls! 'Tis closing day;
I'm drear and lone and far away.
Cold blows on my breast the Northwind's bitter sigh,
And, oh! my couch is bleak, beneath the rainy sky!

Light up thy halls! think not of me;
Absent is that face which thou hast hated so to see;
Bright be thine eyes, undimmed their dazzling shine,
For never, never more shall they encounter mine!

The desert moor is dark, there is tempest in the air;
I have breathed my only wish in one last, one burning prayer;
A prayer that would come forth altho' it lingered long;
That set on fire my heart, but froze upon my tongue.

And now, it shall be done before the morning rise;
I will not watch the sun arise in yonder skies.
One task alone remains—thy pictured face to view,
And then I go to prove if God, at least, be true!

Do I not see thee now? Thy black resplendent hair;
The glory-beaming brow; and smile how heavenly fair!
Thine eyes are turned away—those eyes I would not see;
Their dark, their deadly ray would more than madden me.

Then, go, deceiver, go! My hair is streaming wet;
My heart's blood flows to buy the blessing—to forget!
Oh! could that heart give back—give back again to thine,
One tenth part of the pain that clouds my dark decline.

Oh! could I see thy lids weighed down in cheerless woe;
Too full to hide their tears, too stern to overflow;
Oh! could I know thy soul with equal grief was torn,
This fate might be endured—this anguish might be borne.

How gloomy grows the night! 'Tis Gondal's wind that blows;
I shall not tread again the deep glens where it rose.
I feel it on my face— Where, wild blast! dost thou roam?
What do we, wanderer! here, so far away from home?

I do not need thy breath to cool my death-cold brow;
But go to that far land, where she is shining now;
Tell her my latest wish, tell her my dreary doom;
Say that my pangs are past, but hers are yet to come.

Vain words, vain, frenzied thoughts! No ear can hear my call.
Lost in the desert air my frantic curses fall.
And could she see me now, perchance her lip would smile,
Would smile in careless pride and utter scorn the while!

But yet for all her hate, each parting glance would tell
A stronger passion breathed, burned in this last farewell—
Unconquered in my soul the Tyrant rules me still:
Life bows to my control, but Love I cannot kill!

November 1, 1838.

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