Poem by Emily Jane Brontë

* * *

The wind was rough which tore
That leaf from its parent tree
The fate was cruel which bore
The withering corpse to me

We wander on we have no rest
It is a dreary way

What shadow is it
That ever moves before [my] eyes
It has a brow of ghostly whiteness.

1. Often Rebuked, Yet Always Back Returning
2. The Visionary
3. That Wind I Used to Hear It Swelling
4. Mild the Mist upon the Hill
5. She Dried Her Tears

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