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Monday, August 6, 2012

The Visionary by Emily Bronte

Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: 
One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep, 
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze 
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees. 

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; 
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; 
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far: 
I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star. 

Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame! 
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame: 
But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know, 
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow. 

What I love shall come like visitant of air, 
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare; 
What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray, 
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay. 

Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear— 
Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: 
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; 
Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.

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