THE linnet in the rocky dells, <br /> The moor-lark in the air, <br />The bee among the heather bells <br /> That hide my lady fair: <br /> <br />The wild deer browse above her breast; <br /> The wild birds raise their brood; <br />And they, her smiles of love caress'd, <br /> Have left her solitude! <br /> <br />I ween that when the grave's dark wall <br /> Did first her form retain, <br />They thought their hearts could ne'er recall <br /> The light of joy again. <br /> <br />They thought the tide of grief would flow <br /> Uncheck'd through future years; <br />But where is all their anguish now, <br /> And where are all their tears? <br /> <br />Well, let them fight for honour's breath, <br /> Or pleasure's shade pursue-- <br />The dweller in the land of death <br /> Is changed and careless too. <br /> <br />And if their eyes should watch and weep <br /> Till sorrow's source were dry, <br />She would not, in her tranquil sleep, <br /> Return a single sigh! <br /> <br />Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound: <br /> And murmur, summer streams! <br />There is no need of other sound <br /> To soothe my lady's dreams.<br /><br />Emily Jane Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-lady-s-grave-2/
