For that mist may break when the sun is high — Emily Brontë

"Reason, indeed, may oft complain For Natures sad reality, And tell the suffering heart, how vain Its cherished dreams must always be; And Truth may rudely trample down The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:"

"Ive watched thee every hour — I know my mighty sway — I know my magic power To drive thy griefs away —"

"A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; And, deepening still the dreamlike charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere."

"What matters it, that, all around, Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie, If but within our bosoms bound We hold a bright, untroubled sky, Warm with ten thousand mingled rays Of suns that know no winter days?"

"But, thou art ever there, to bring The hovering vision back, and breathe New glories oer the blighted spring, And call a lovelier Life from Death, And whisper, with a voice divine, Of real worlds, as bright as thine."

"What use is it to slumber here: Though the heart be sad and weary? What use is it to slumber here Though the day rise dark and dreary?"