The Brontës

The day is done, the winter sun
Is setting in its sullen sky;
And drear the course that has been run,
And dim the hearts that slowly die.

No star will light my coming night;
No morn of hope for me will shine;
I mourn not heaven would blast my sight,
And I ne’er longed for joys divine.

Through life’s hard task I did not ask
Celestial aid, celestial cheer;
I saw my fate without its mask,
And met it too without a tear.

The grief that pressed my aching breast
Was heavier far than earth can be;
And who would dread eternal rest
When labour’s hour was agony?

Dark falls the fear of this despair
On spirits born of happiness;
But I was bred the mate of care,
The foster-child of sore distress.

No sighs for me, no sympathy,
No wish to keep my soul below;
The heart is dead in infancy,
Unwept-for let the body go.

At Castle Wood, Emily Bronte (via wetalkedasgirlsdo)

1. the-lucky-ducky liked this
2. underthefoldingbranches liked this
3. thebeautyisme reblogged this from thebrontes
4. memmis liked this
5. mikkipedia reblogged this from thebrontes and added:

   and thus my weekend begins.

6. thebrontes reblogged this from wetalkedasgirlsdo
7. howlcoyotecody liked this
8. howlcoyotecody reblogged this from wetalkedasgirlsdo
9. wetalkedasgirlsdo posted this