|NdEpEndEnT
Mild the mist upon the hill,
Telling not of storms tomorrow;
No ; the day has wept its fill,
Spent its store of silent sorrow.
Oh, Im gone back to the days of youth,
I am a child once more,
And neath my fathers sheltering roof,
And near the old hall door.
I watch this cloudy evening fall}
After a day of rain:
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall
The horizons mountain-chain.
The damp stand in the long, green grass
As thick as mornings tear;
And dremy scents of fragrance pass
That breathe of other year.
Emily Bronte
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