The Visionary Emily Brontë 1818 – 1848 Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep,Watching every cloud, dreading every breezeThat whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star.
Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame!Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame:But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know,What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.
What I love shall come like visitant of air,Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray,Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.
Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.

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