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 man’s delight
With lyric foam in rainbow flight,
But all a-swing, a-gleam, mid slow uproar,
Black sea, and curved uncouth sea-bitten shore.

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