At Castle Wood

The day is done, the winter sun
Is setting in its sullen sky;
And drear the course that has been run,
And dim the hearts that slowly die.

No star will light my coming night;
No morn of hope for me will shine;
I mourn not heaven would blast my sight,
And I ne'er longed for joys divine.

Through life's hard task I did not ask
Celestial aid, celestial cheer;
I saw my fate without its mask,
And met it too without a tear.

The grief that pressed my aching breast
Was heavier far than earth can be;
And who would dread eternal rest
When labour's hour was agony?

Dark falls the fear of this despair
On spirits born of happiness;
But I was bred the mate of care,
The foster-child of sore distress.

No sighs for me, no sympathy,
No wish to keep my soul below;
The heart is dead in infancy,
Unwept-for let the body go.

by Emily Jane Brontë

Comments (7)

The pathetic state of mind of a person in depression skillfully portrayed and it's quite touching.
Life's hard task...... thanks for posting.......
Verse drenched with overwhelming gloom.
this is smoothly written- in its rhyme and meter. if she's writing about herself, i don't know her life to understand But I was bred the mate of care, The foster-child of sore distress. It strikes me, though, that the overcast sky that broods over this poem is so characteristic of what went for literature in the late 19th and early 20th century, and that the brownings in poetry were an exception to this. gk
a very sad poem of accepting ones fate with no light at the end of the tunnel? .................sorrowfully penned.
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