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1818–1848

THE PHILOSOPHER.

Emily Jane Brontë

Enough of thought, philosopher! Too long hast thou been dreaming Unlightened, in this chamber drear, While summer's sun is beaming!

Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain Concludes thy musings once again? “Oh, for the time when I shall sleep Without identity.

And never care how rain may steep, Or snow may cover me! No promised heaven, these wild desires Could all, or half fulfil;

No threatened hell, with quenchless fires, Subdue this quenchless will!” “So said I, and still say the same; Still, to my death, will say —

Three gods, within this little frame, Are warring night; and day; Heaven could not hold them all, and yet They all are held in me;

And must be mine till I forget My present entity! Oh, for the time, when in my breast Their struggles will be o'er!

Oh, for the day, when I shall rest, And never suffer more!” “I saw a spirit, standing, man, Where thou dost stand — an hour ago,

And round his feet three rivers ran, Of equal depth, and equal flow — A golden stream — and one like blood; And one like sapphire seemed to be;

But, where they joined their triple flood It tumbled in an inky sea The spirit sent his dazzling gaze Down through that ocean's gloomy night;

Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze, The glad deep sparkled wide and bright — White as the sun, far, far more fair Than its divided sources were!”

“And even for that spirit, seer, I've watched and sought my life-time long; Sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air, An endless search, and always wrong.

Had I but seen his glorious eye ONCE light the clouds that wilder me; I ne'er had raised this coward cry To cease to think, and cease to be;

I ne'er had called oblivion blest, Nor stretching eager hands to death, Implored to change for senseless rest This sentient soul, this living breath —

Oh, let me die — that power and will Their cruel strife may close; And conquered good, and conquering ill Be lost in one repose!”

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THE PHILOSOPHER. · Emily Jane Brontë · Poetry Cove