Far, Far Away Is Mirth Withdrawn

Poem By Emily Jane Brontë

Far, far away is mirth withdrawn
'Tis three long hours before the morn
And I watch lonely, drearily -
So come thou shade commune with me

Deserted one ! thy corpse lies cold
And mingled with a foreign mould -
Year after year the grass grows green
Above the dust where thou hast been.

I will not name thy blighted name
Tarnished by unforgotton shame
Though not because my bosom torn
Joins the mad world in all its scorn -

Thy phantom face is dark with woe
Tears have left ghastly traces there,
Those ceaseless tears ! I wish their flow
Could quench thy wild despair.

They deluge my heart like the rain
On cursed Gomorrah's howling plain -
Yet when I hear thy foes deride
I must cling closely to thy side -

Our mutual foes - they will not rest
From trampling on thy buried breast -
Glutting there hatred with the doom
They picture thine, beyond the tomb -

But God is not like human kind
Man cannot read the Almighty mind
Vengeance will never tortue they
Nor hunt thy soul eternally

Then do not in this night of grief
This time of over whelming fear
O do not think that God can leave
Forget, forsake, refuse to hear ! -

What have I dreamt ? He lies asleep
With whom my heart would vainly weep
He rests - and I endure the woe
That left his spirit long ago -

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