That wind is from the North, I know it well; <br />No other breeze could have so wild a swell. <br />Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell, <br /> The faintly dies, <br /> And softly sighs, <br />And moans and murmurs mournfully. <br />I know its language; thus is speaks to me -- <br />'I have passed over thy own mountains dear, <br />Thy northern mountains -- and they still are free, <br />Still lonely, wild, majestic, bleak and drear, <br />And stern and lovely, as they used to be <br />When thou, a young enthusiast, <br />As wild and free as they, <br />O'er rocks and glens and snowy heights <br />Didst often love to stray. <br /> <br />I've blown the wild untrodden snows <br />In whirling eddies from their brows, <br />And I have howled in caverns wild <br />Where thou, a joyous mountain child, <br />Didst dearly love to be. <br />The sweet world is not changed, but thou <br />Art pining in a dungeon now, <br />Where thou must ever be; <br />No voice but mine can reach thine ear, <br />And Heaven has kindly sent me here, <br />To mourn and sigh with thee, <br />And tell thee of the cherished land <br />Of thy nativity.' <br /> <br />Blow on, wild wind, thy solemn voice, <br />However sad and drear, <br />Is nothing to the gloomy silence <br />I have had to bear. <br /> <br />Hot tears are streaming from my eyes, <br />But these are better far <br />Than that dull gnawing tearless [time] <br />The stupor of despair. <br /> <br />Confined and hopeless as I am, <br />O speak of liberty, <br />O tell me of my mountain home, <br />And I will welcome thee. <br /> <br />Alexandrina Zenobia<br /><br />Anne Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-north-wind-2/
