Emily Jane Brontë (Эмили Бронте)
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Come hither, child--who gifted thee With power to touch that string so well? How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me, Thoughts that I would--but cannot quell? Nay, chide not, lady; long ago I heard those notes in Ula's hall, And had I known they'd waken woe I'd weep their music to recall. But thus it was: one festal night When I was hardly six years old I stole away from crowds and light And sought a chamber dark and cold. I had no one to love me there, I knew no comrade and no friend; And so I went to sorrow where Heaven, only heaven saw me bend. Loud blew the wind; 'twas sad to stay From all that splendour barred away. I imaged in the lonely room A thousand forms of fearful gloom. And with my wet eyes raised on high I prayed to God that I might die. Suddenly in that silence drear A sound of music reached my ear, And then a note, I hear it yet, So full of soul, so deeply sweet, I thought that Gabriel's self had come To take me to thy father's home. Three times it rose, that seraph strain, Then died, nor breathed again; But still the words and still the tone Dwell round my heart when all alone.
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