Emily Brontë
For H

Upon alive and fresh green unspoiled moor
    He roamed the heaths despondent, insecure,
His hate blackened heart eternally marred,
    He searched for the love she brutally scarred.
From out of the whispers of winds so wild
    Came the tale of love never reconciled,
A couple apart but always together,
    Seasonal, like the blossom of heather,
Blooming so quickly and fading so fast,
    This was a love that could never quite last,
And the envy within tore him apart
    And ruined his chance to repair his heart.
In pain and damnation, betrayed, despised,
    He died all alone and demoralised.
Although he accused her of living a lie
    He'd love her ghost til the day he would die,
He thought she that was bewitched as a slave,
    In truth, he lived with his soul in the grave.

Emily Brontë, English novelist and poet, best known for her novel Wuthering Heights, died today in 1848.

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