COME HITHER, CHILDBy Emily BrontëCome hither, child—who gifted theeWith power to touch that string so well?

How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me,Thoughts that I would—but cannot quell?

Nay, chide not, lady; long agoI heard those notes in Ula’s hall,And had I known they’d waken woeI’d weep their music to recall.

But thus it was: one festal nightWhen I was hardly six years oldI stole away from crowds and lightAnd sought a chamber dark and cold.

I had no one to love me there,I knew no comrade and no friend;And so I went to sorrow whereHeaven, only heaven saw me bend.

Loud blew the wind; ’twas sad to stayFrom all that splendour barred away.

I imaged in the lonely roomA thousand forms of fearful gloom.

And with my wet eyes raised on highI prayed to God that I might die.

Suddenly in that silence drearA sound of music reached my ear.

And then a note, I hear it yet,So full of soul, so deeply sweet,I thought that Gabriel’s self had comeTo take me to thy father’s home.

Three times it rose, that seraph strain,Then died, nor breathed again;But still the words and still the toneDwell round my heart when all alone.

【英文诗歌300首 COME HITHER, CHILD查看网站：[db:时间]】