A Day Dream by Emily Bronte

A Day Dream by Emily Bronte

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 carolled 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 do you 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 healthy 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 its 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

Me thought, 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 thin 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