The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë, Yes, holy be thy resting-place

LXVII

Yes, holy be thy resting-place
Wherever thou mayst lie;
The sweetest winds breathe on thy face
The softest of the sky.

And will not guardian angels send
Kind dreams and thoughts of love,
Though I no more may watchful bend
Thy loved repose above?

And will not heaven itself bestow
A beam of glory there,
That summer's grass more green may grow,
And summer's flowers more fair?

Farewell, farewell; 'tis hard to part,
Yet, loved one, it must be:
I would not rend another heart,
Not even with blessing thee.

Go! we must break affection's chain,
Forget the hopes of years:
Nay, grieve not—wouldest thou remain
To waken wilder tears?

This heart burns with thee and me,
Loves it the dreaming day:
But thou shouldst be where it shall be
Ere evening, far away.

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