THAT WIND
That wind, I used to hear it swelling;
With joy divinely deep;
You might have seen my hot tears welling,
But rapture made me weep.
I used to love on winter nights
To lie and dream alone
Of all the rare and real delights
My lonely years had known;
And oh!—above the best—of those
That coming time should bear,
Like heaven's own glorious stars they rose,
Still beaming bright and fair.
Emily Brontë
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