The Poetry Corner

Speak, God Of Visions

By Emily Bronte

O, thy bright eyes must answer now, When Reason, with a scornful brow, Is mocking at my overthrow! O, thy sweet tongue must plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee! Stern Reason is to judgment come, Arrayed in all her forms of gloom: Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb? No, radiant angel, speak and say Why I did cast the world away; Why I have presevered to shun The common paths that others run, And on a strange road journeyed on, Heedless alike of wealth and power, Of Glory's wreath and Pleasure's flower. These once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine; And they, perchance, heard vows of mine, And saw my offerings on their shrine; But careless gifts are seldom prized, And mine were worthily despised. So, with a ready heart I swore To seek their altar-stone no more; And gave my spirit to adore Thee, ever-present, phantom thing My slave, my comrade, and my king. A slave, because I rule thee still, Incline thee to my changeful will, And make thy influence good or ill; A comrade, for by day and night Thou art my intimate delight, My darling pain that wounds and sears, And wrings a blessing out of tears Be deadening me to earthly cares; And yet, a king, though Prudence well Have taught thy subject to rebel. And I am wrong to worship where Faith cannot doubt, nor Hope despair, Since my own soul can grant my prayer? Speak, God of Visions, plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee!