Emily Brontë (1818–1848)

IN summer’s mellow midnight,

A cloudless moon shone through

Our open parlour window,

And rose-trees wet with dew.

I sat in silent musing,

The soft wind waved my hair;

It told me heaven was glorious,

And sleeping earth was fair.

I needed not its breathing

To bring such thoughts to me;

But still it whispered lowly,

How dark the woods will be!

“The thick leaves in my murmur

Are rustling like a dream,

And all their myriad voices

Instinct with spirit seem.”

I said, “Go, gentle singer,

Thy wooing voice is kind:

But do not think its music

Has power to reach my mind.

“Play with the scented flower,

The young tree’s supple bough,

And leave my human feelings

In their own course to flow.”

The wanderer would not heed me;

Its kiss grew warmer still.

“Oh come!” it sighed so sweetly;

“I’ll win thee ’gainst thy will.

“Were we not friends from childhood?

Have I not loved thee long?

As long as thou, the solemn night,

Whose silence wakes my song.

“And when thy heart is resting

Beneath the church-aisle stone,

I shall have time for mourning,

And thou for being alone.”