Poem by Emily Jane Brontë

* * *

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. Honour's Martyr
2. Self-Interrogation
3. The Wanderer from the Fold
4. The Philosopher
5. Yes, Holy Be Thy Resting Place

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