My Comforter
Well hast thou spoken, and yet, not taught A feeling strange or new;
Thou hast but roused a latent thought,
A cloud-closed beam of sunshine, brought To gleam in open view.
Deep down, concealed within my soul, That light lies hid from men;
Yet, glows unquenched-though shadows roll,
Its gentle ray cannot control, About the sullen den.
Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long ?
Around me, wretches uttering praise,
Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue;- A brotherhood of misery, Their smiles as sad as sighs;
Whose madness daily maddened me,
Distorting into agony The bliss before my eyes !
So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, And in the glare of Hell;
My spirit drank a mingled tone,
Of seraph's song, and demon's moan;
What my soul bore, my soul alone Within itself may tell !
Like a soft air, above a sea, Tossed by the tempest's stir;
A thaw-wind, melting quietly The snow-drift, on some wintry lea;
No: what sweet thing resembles thee, My thoughtful Comforter ?
And yet a little longer speak, Calm this resentful mood;
And while the savage heart grows meek,
For other token do not seek,
But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude !
Emily Jane Bronte
Other author posts
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Faith And Despondency
The winter wind is loud and wild, Come close to me, my darling child; Forsake thy books, and mateless play; And, while the night is gathering gray,
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