Emily Jane Brontë (Эмили Бронте)

* * *

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.

1. Death, That Struck When I Was Most Confiding
2. High Waving Heather 'Neath Stormy Blasts Bending
3. Shall Earth No More Inspire Thee
4. Often Rebuked, Yet Always Back Returning
5. Come Hither, Child

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1984

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