Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: <br />One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep, <br />Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze <br />That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees. <br /> <br />Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; <br />Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; <br />The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far: <br />I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star. <br /> <br />Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame! <br />Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame: <br />But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know, <br />What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow. <br /> <br />What I love shall come like visitant of air, <br />Safe in secret power from lurking human snare; <br />What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray, <br />Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay. <br /> <br />Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear— <br />Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: <br />He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; <br />Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.<br /><br />Emily Jane Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-visionary/
