O God of Heaven! The dream of horror
O God of heaven! The dream of horror,
The frightful dream is over now;
The sickened heart, the blasting sorrow,
The ghastly night, the ghastlier morrow,
The aching sense of utter woe.
The burning tears that would keep welling,
The groan that mocked at every tear,
That burst from our dreary dwelling,
As if each gasp were life expelling,
But life was nourished by despair.
The tossing and the anguished pining,
The grinding teeth and starting eye;
The agony of still repining,
when not a spark of hope was shining
From gloomy fate's reletless sky.
The impatient rage, the useless shrinking
From thoughts that yet could not be borne;
The soul that was for ever thinking,
Till nature maddened, tortured, sinking,
At last refused to mourn.
It's over now--and I am free,
And the ocean wind is caressing me,
The wild wind from the wavy main
I never thought to see again.
Bless thee, bright Sea, and glorious dome,
And my own world, my spirit's home;
Bless thee, bless all--I cannot speak;
My voice is choked, but not with grief,
And salt drops from my haggard cheek
Descend like rain upon the heath.
How long they've wet a dungeon floor,
Falling on flagstones damp and grey:
I used to weep even in my sleep;
The night was dreadful like the day.
I used to weep when winter's snow
Whirled through the grating stormily;
But then it was a calmer woe,
For everything was drear to me.
The bitterest time, the worst of all,
Was that in which the summer sheen
Cast a green lustre on the wall
That told of fields of lovelier green.
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poem by Emily Brontë from The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë (1908)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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