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Poem by Louise Imogen Guiney


Emily Brontë


What sacramental hurt that brings
The terror of the truth of things,
Had changed thee? Secret be it yet.
Twas thine, upon a headland set,
To view no isles of mans delight
With lyric foam in rainbow flight,
But all a-swing, a-gleam, mid slow uproar,
Black sea, and curved uncouth sea-bitten shore.



Louise Imogen Guiney


Louise Imogen Guiney's other poems:
  1. Writ in my Lord Clarendons History of the Rebellion
  2. A December Walk
  3. On the Pre-Reformation Churches about Oxford
  4. On the Same (continued)
  5. A Last Word on Shelley


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