Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

Brontë, Anne · 1848

I've quench'd my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall-- The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall; Over against my bed, there shone a gleam Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream. It sank, and I am wrapt in utter gloom; How far is night advanced, and when will day Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom, And fill this void with warm, creative ray? Would I could sleep again till, clear and red, Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread!…

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