Emily Brontë

written by

Louise Imogen Guiney

What sacramental hurt that bringsThe terror of the truth of thingsHad changed thee? Secret be it yet.'T was thine, upon a headland set,To view no isles of man's delight,With lyric foam in rainbow flight,But all a-swing, a-gleam, mid slow uproar,Black sea, and curved uncouth sea-bitten shore.