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;
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
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,
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