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A Day Dream - Ghizela Rowe
A Day Dream by Emily Jane Brontë
On a sunny brae alone I lay
One summer afternoon;
It was the marriage-time of May
With her young lover June
From her mother's heart seemed loath to part
That queen of bridal charms
But her father smiled on the fairest child
He ever held in his arms
The trees did wave their plumy crests
The glad birds caroled clear;
And I of all the wedding guests
Was only sullen there
There was not one but wished to shun
My aspect void of cheer;
The very grey rocks looking on
Asked What you do here
And I could utter no reply;
In sooth I did not know
Why I had brought a clouded eye
To greet the general glow
So resting on a heathy bank
I took my heart to me;
And we together sadly sank
Into a reverie
We thought When winter comes again
Where will these bright things be
All vanished like a vision vain
An unreal mockery
The birds that now so blithely sing
Through deserts frozen dry
Poor spectres of the perished spring
In famished troops will fly
And why should we be glad at all
The leaf is hardly green
Before a token of it's fall
Is on the surface seen
Now whether it were really so
I never could be sure;
But as in fit of peevish woe
I stretched me on the moor
A thousand thousand gleaming fires
Seemed kindling in the air;
A thousand thousand silvery lyres
Resounded far and near:
Methought the very breath I breathed
Was full of sparks divine
And all my heather-couch was wreathed
By that celestial shine
And while the wide earth echoing rung
To their strange minstrelsy
The little glittering spirits sung
Or seemed to sing to me
O mortal mortal let them die;
Let time and tears destroy
That we may overflow the sky
With universal joy
Let grief distract the sufferer's breast
And night obscure his way;
They hasten him to endless rest
And everlasting day
To thee the world is like a tomb
A desert's naked shore;
To us in unimagined bloom
It brightens more and more
And could we lift the veil and give
One brief glimpse to thine eye
Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live
Because they live to die
The music ceased; the noonday dream
Like dream of night withdrew;
But Fancy still will sometimes deem
Her fond creation true
