To a Wreath of Snow

 

O transient voyager of heaven!

O silent sign of winter skies!

What adverse wind thy sail has driven

To dungeons where a prisoner lies?

Methinks the hands that shut the sun

So sternly from this mourning brow

Might still their rebel task have done

And checked a thing so frail as thou

They would have done it had they known

The talisman that dwelt in thee,

For all the suns that ever shone

Have never been so kind to me!

For many a week, and many a day

My heart was weighed with sinking gloom

When morning rose in mourning grey

And faintly lit my prison room

But angel like, when I awoke,

Thy silvery form so soft and fair

Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke

Of cloudy skies and mountains bare

The dearest to a mountaineer

Who, all life long has loved the snow

That crowned her native summits drear,

Better, than greenest plains below –

And voiceless, soulless messenger

They presence waked a thrilling tone

That comforts me while thou art here

And will sustain when thou art gone

 

Emily Bronte (1837) 

 

I've just finished reading through a number of poems written by Charlotte, Emily, Anne and Branwell Bronte - i'm hoping that i can also see any originals held at the Bronte Parsonage Museum later this week  - i'll keep you posted.

Thanks to Mike from Stanbury for the beautiful images of snow on the moors surrounding the Bronte Parsonage Museum taken in the last couple of weeks.