The day is done, the winter sun <br />Is setting in its sullen sky; <br />And drear the course that has been run, <br />And dim the hearts that slowly die. <br /> <br />No star will light my coming night; <br />No morn of hope for me will shine; <br />I mourn not heaven would blast my sight, <br />And I ne'er longed for joys divine. <br /> <br />Through life's hard task I did not ask <br />Celestial aid, celestial cheer; <br />I saw my fate without its mask, <br />And met it too without a tear. <br /> <br />The grief that pressed my aching breast <br />Was heavier far than earth can be; <br />And who would dread eternal rest <br />When labour's hour was agony? <br /> <br />Dark falls the fear of this despair <br />On spirits born of happiness; <br />But I was bred the mate of care, <br />The foster-child of sore distress. <br /> <br />No sighs for me, no sympathy, <br />No wish to keep my soul below; <br />The heart is dead in infancy, <br />Unwept-for let the body go.<br /><br />Emily Jane Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-castle-wood-2/
