Poem by Emily Jane Brontë

* * *

Mild the mist upon the hill
Telling not of storms tomorrow;
No, the day has wept its fill,
Spent its store of silent sorrow.

O, I'm gone back to the days of youth,
I am a child once more,
And 'neath my father's sheltering roof
And near the old hall door

I watch this cloudy evening fall
After a day of rain;
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall
The horizon's mountain chain.

The damp stands on the long green grass
As thick as morning's tears,
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass
That breathe of other years. 

1. The Wind Was Rough Which Tore
2. I See Around Me Tombstones Grey
3. Often Rebuked, Yet Always Back Returning
4. Yes, Holy Be Thy Resting Place
5. High Waving Heather 'Neath Stormy Blasts Bending

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