The Poetry Corner

Far, Far Away Is Mirth Withdrawn

By Emily Bronte

Far, far away is mirth withdrawn 'Tis three long hours before the morn And I watch lonely, drearily So come thou shade commune with me Deserted one!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