incompleteness? (a Gondal poem.)

Alone I sat

Emily Jane Brontë

Alone I sat; the summer day
Had died in smiling light away;
I saw it die, I watched it fade
From misty hill and breezeless glade;

And thoughts in my soul were gushing,
And my heart bowed beneath their power;
And tears within my eyes were rushing
Because I could not speak the feeling,
The solemn joy around me stealing
In that divine, untroubled hour.

I asked my self: ‘O why has heaven
Denied the precious gift to me,
The glorious gift to many given
To speak their thoughts in poetry?

‘Dreams have encircled me,’ I said,
From careless childhood’s sunny time;
Visions by ardent fancy fed
Since life was in its morning prime.’

But now, when I had hoped to sing,
My fingers strike a tuneless string;
And still the burden of the strain
Is: ‘strive no more; ’tis all in vain.’

Nothing ends up like I want it to.


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