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.
by
Emily Brontë (1818 to 1848)
This poem is in the
public domain.