The Poetry Corner

Mild The Mist Upon The Hill

By Emily Bronte

Mild the mist upon the hill Telling not of storms tomorrow; No, the day has wept its fill, Spent its store of silent sorrow. O, I'm gone back to the days of youth, I am a child once more, And 'neath my father's sheltering roof And near the old hall door I watch this cloudy evening fall After a day of rain; Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall The horizon's mountain chain. The damp stands on the long green grass As thick as morning's tears, And dreamy scents of fragrance pass That breathe of other years.