EMILY BRONTË - Richard Garnett Poems

 
 

Poems » richard garnett » emily bront euml

EMILY BRONTË

What sacramental hurt that brings
The terror of the truth of things
Had changed thee? Secret be it yet.
’T was thine, upon a headland set,
To view no isles of man’s delight,
With lyric foam in rainbow flight,
But all a-swing, a-gleam, mid slow uproar,
Black sea, and curved uncouth sea-bitten shore.