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Monday, August 6, 2012

Come hither, child by Emily Bronte

Come hither, child--who gifted thee 
With power to touch that string so well? 
How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me, 
Thoughts that I would--but cannot quell?

Nay, chide not, lady; long ago 
I heard those notes in Ula's hall, 
And had I known they'd waken woe 
I'd weep their music to recall.

But thus it was: one festal night 
When I was hardly six years old 
I stole away from crowds and light 
And sought a chamber dark and cold.

I had no one to love me there, 
I knew no comrade and no friend; 
And so I went to sorrow where 
Heaven, only heaven saw me bend.

Loud blew the wind; 'twas sad to stay 
From all that splendour barred away. 
I imaged in the lonely room 
A thousand forms of fearful gloom.

And with my wet eyes raised on high 
I prayed to God that I might die. 
Suddenly in that silence drear 
A sound of music reached my ear,

And then a note, I hear it yet, 
So full of soul, so deeply sweet, 
I thought that Gabriel's self had come 
To take me to thy father's home.

Three times it rose, that seraph strain, 
Then died, nor breathed again; 
But still the words and still the tone 
Dwell round my heart when all alone.

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