Some well-loved bosom to whose pillow we
Could heartily our utter self deliver;
And if, toward her grave—Death's dreary road—
Our Darling's feet should tread, each step by her
Would draw our own steps to the same abode,
And make a festival of sepulture;
For what gave joy, and joy to us had owed,
Should death affright us from, when he would her restore?
'Yours most sincerely,
'P. B. Brontë.'