To a Wreath of Snow
- Ó transient voyager of heaven!
- Ó silent sign of winter skies!
- What adverse wind thy sail has driven
- To dungeons where a prisoner lies?
- Methinks the hands that shut the sun
- So sternly from this morning brow
- Might still their rebel task have done
- And checked a thing so frail as thou
- They would have done it had they known
- The talisman that dwelt in thee,
- For all the suns that ever shone
- Have never been so kind to me!
- For many a week, and many a day
- My heart was weighed with sinking gloom
- When morning rose in mourning grey
- And faintly lit my prison room
- But angel like, when I awoke,
- Thy silvery form so soft and fair
- Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke
- Of cloudy skies and mountains bare
- The dearest to a mountaineer
- Who, all life long has loved the snow
- That crowned her native summits drear,
- Better, than greenest plains below –
- And voiceless, soulless messenger
- Thy presence waked a thrilling tone
- That comforts me while thou art here
- And will sustain when thou art gone.
-
- Emily Brontë.
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