Three Short Poems by Emily Brontë

Lonely at her window sitting,
While the evening stole away;
Fitful winds, foreboding, flitting
Through a sky of cloudy grey.

Twas one of those dark, cloudy days
That sometimes come in summer's blaze,
When heaven drops not, when earth is still,
And deeper green is on the hill.

There are two trees in a lonely field;
They breathe a spell to me;
A dreary thought their dark boughs yield,
All waving solemnly.