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At Castle Wood

 The day is done, the winter sun
Is setting in its sullen sky;
And drear the course that has been run,
And dim the hearts that slowly die.
No star will light my coming night; No morn of hope for me will shine; I mourn not heaven would blast my sight, And I ne'er longed for joys divine.
Through life's hard task I did not ask Celestial aid, celestial cheer; I saw my fate without its mask, And met it too without a tear.
The grief that pressed my aching breast Was heavier far than earth can be; And who would dread eternal rest When labour's hour was agony? Dark falls the fear of this despair On spirits born of happiness; But I was bred the mate of care, The foster-child of sore distress.
No sighs for me, no sympathy, No wish to keep my soul below; The heart is dead in infancy, Unwept-for let the body go.

Poem by Emily Bronte
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