30.07.2007, 10:13
Emily Bronte
The parsonage o'erlooked the barren moors,
The little garden and the graveyard there,
With all the country round it bleak and bare
Yet even desolation had its lures,
And like the flower that blossoms and endures
Among the rocks, here spirit, too, grew fair,
And found its heaven in the bracing air
Of Haworth midst the villagers and boors.
She loved the tempest and the driving rain,
Her very loneliness inspired her sight,
The winds expressed her longing and her pain,
And gave her fancy weird the wings for flight;
But all the beauty round her shone in vain,
Unless the home folks shared with her its light.
The parsonage o'erlooked the barren moors,
The little garden and the graveyard there,
With all the country round it bleak and bare
Yet even desolation had its lures,
And like the flower that blossoms and endures
Among the rocks, here spirit, too, grew fair,
And found its heaven in the bracing air
Of Haworth midst the villagers and boors.
She loved the tempest and the driving rain,
Her very loneliness inspired her sight,
The winds expressed her longing and her pain,
And gave her fancy weird the wings for flight;
But all the beauty round her shone in vain,
Unless the home folks shared with her its light.