The Wind was Rough which Tore
The wind was rough which tore
That leaf from its parent tree
The fate was cruel which bore
The withering corpse to me
We wander on we have no rest
It is a dreary way
What shadow is it
That ever moves before [my] eyes
It has a brow of ghostly whiteness
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
