Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
Without identity,
And never care how rain may steep,
Or snow may cover me!
No promised heaven these wild desires
Could all, or half, fulful;
No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,
Subdue this quenchless will!
So said I, and still say the same;
Still, to my death, will say—
Three gods within this little frame
Are warring night and day:
Heaven could not hold them all, and yet
They all are held in me;
And must be mine till I forget
My present entity!
Oh, for the time when in my breast
Their struggles will be o'er!
Oh, for the day when I shall rest,
And never suffer more!