Emily Bronte

'Du hast Diamanten' Thou hadst all Passion's splendor, Thou hadst abounding store Of heaven's eternal jewels, Beloved; what wouldst thou more? Thine was the frolic freedom Of creatures coy and wild, The melancholy of wisdom, The innocence of a child, The maiPd will of the warrior, That buckled in thy breast Humility as of Francis, The Self-surrender of Christ; And of God's cup thou drankest The unmingled wine of Love, Which makes poor mortals giddy When they but sip thereof. What was't to thee thy pathway So rugged mean and hard, Whereon when Death surprised thee Thou gavest him no regard? What was't to thee, enamour'd As a red rose of the sun, If of thy myriad lovers Thou never sawest one? Nor if of all thy lovers That are and were to be None ever had their vision, O my belov'd, of thee, Until thy silent glory Went forth from earth alone, Where like a star thou gleamest From thine immortal throne.