Mild the mist upon the hill
Emily Brontë
1818 to 1848
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Mild the mist upon the hill
Telling not of tomorrow;
No, the day has wept its fill,
Spent store of silent sorrow.
O, I'm gone back to days of youth,
I am a child once more,
'neath my father's sheltering roof
And near the old door
I watch this cloudy evening fall
After a of rain;
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall
horizon's mountain chain.
The damp stands on the long grass
As thick as morning's tears,
And dreamy scents fragrance pass
That breathe of other years.