At Castle Wood
Emily Jane Brontë 1818 (Thornton) – 1848 (Haworth)
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;
No morn of hope 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
Celestial 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,
The foster-child 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.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 14, 2023
- 48 sec read
- 62 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABAB CDCD EXEF GHGH FXFX HIHI |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 795 |
Words | 160 |
Stanzas | 6 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4 |
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"At Castle Wood" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 23 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/12492/at-castle-wood>.
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