MY COMFORTER

by: Emily Brontë (1818-1848)

      ELL 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!

MORE POEMS BY EMILY BRONTË

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