Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Sever’d at last by Time’s all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world’s tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lighten’d up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perish’d,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’d,
Strengthen’d and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion—
Wean’d my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?

-by Emily Bronte

Hey guys, sorry I missed this last week.  Anyway, here's a challenge for this week:

Poet to Poet: A poem by a published poet will be selected. The challenge will be to write a response to it. It can be a parody or an answer or an agreement or disagreement. You may mimic the form of the original or use whatever form (or lack of form) you wish.

The poem:


Symphony in Yellow

 An omnibus across the bridge
   Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
   And, here and there, a passer-by
 Shows like a little restless midge.

 Big barges full of yellow hay
   Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
   And, like a yellow silken scarf,
 The thick fog hangs along the quay.

 The yellow leaves begin to fade
   And flutter from the Temple elms,
   And at my feet the pale green Thames
 Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

-Oscar Wilde