"tranquilly" poems - Hello Poetry

"O day! he cannot die When thou so fair art shining! O Sun, in such a glorious sky, So tranquilly declining; He cannot leave thee now, While fresh west winds are blowing, And all around his youthful brow Thy cheerful light is glowing! Edward, awake, awake-- The golden evening gleams Warm and bright on Arden's lake-- Arouse thee from thy dreams! Beside thee, on my knee, My dearest friend, I pray That thou, to cross the eternal sea, Wouldst yet one hour delay: I hear its billows roar-- I see them foaming high; But no glimpse of a further shore Has blest my straining eye. Believe not what they urge Of Eden isles beyond; Turn back, from that tempestuous surge, To thy own native land. It is not death, but pain That struggles in thy breast-- Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again; I cannot let thee rest!" One long look, that sore reproved me For the woe I could not bear-- One mute look of suffering moved me To repent my useless prayer: And, with sudden check, the heaving Of distraction passed away; Not a sign of further grieving Stirred my soul that awful day. Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting; Sunk to peace the twilight breeze: Summer dews fell softly, wetting Glen, and glade, and silent trees. Then his eyes began to weary, Weighed beneath a mortal sleep; And their orbs grew strangely dreary, Clouded, even as they would weep. But they wept not, but they changed not, Never moved, and never closed; Troubled still, and still they ranged not-- Wandered not, nor yet reposed! So I knew that he was dying-- Stooped, and raised his languid head; Felt no breath, and heard no sighing, So I knew that he was dead.

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Emily Bronte

A Death-scene

"O day! he cannot die When thou so fair art shining! O Sun, in such a glorious sky, So tranquilly declining; He cannot leave thee now, While fresh west winds are blowing, And all around his youthful brow Thy cheerful light is glowing! Edward, awake, awake-- The golden evening gleams Warm and bright on Arden's lake-- Arouse thee from thy dreams! Beside thee, on my knee, My dearest friend, I pray That thou, to cross the eternal sea, Wouldst yet one hour delay: I hear its billows roar-- I see them foaming high; But no glimpse of a further shore Has blest my straining eye. Believe not what they urge Of Eden isles beyond; Turn back, from that tempestuous surge, To thy own native land. It is not death, but pain That struggles in thy breast-- Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again; I cannot let thee rest!" One long look, that sore reproved me For the woe I could not bear-- One mute look of suffering moved me To repent my useless prayer: And, with sudden check, the heaving Of distraction passed away; Not a sign of further grieving Stirred my soul that awful day. Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting; Sunk to peace the twilight breeze: Summer dews fell softly, wetting Glen, and glade, and silent trees. Then his eyes began to weary, Weighed beneath a mortal sleep; And their orbs grew strangely dreary, Clouded, even as they would weep. But they wept not, but they changed not, Never moved, and never closed; Troubled still, and still they ranged not-- Wandered not, nor yet reposed! So I knew that he was dying-- Stooped, and raised his languid head; Felt no breath, and heard no sighing, So I knew that he was dead.