Poem of the week: The North Wind by Anne Bronte

T hat wind is from the North, I know it well;No other breeze could have so wild a swell.Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell,Then faintly dies,And softly sighs,And moans and murmurs mournfully.I know its language; thus is speaks to me I have passed over thy own mountains dear,Thy northern mountains and they still are free,Still lonely, wild, majestic, bleak and drear, And stern and lovely, as they used to be When thou, a young enthusiast,As wild and free as they,O'er rocks and glens and snowy heightsDidst often love to stray.I've blown the wild untrodden snowsIn whirling eddies from their brows,And I have howled in caverns wildWhere thou, a joyous mountain child,Didst dearly love to be.The sweet world is not changed, but thouArt pining in a dungeon now,Where thou must ever be;No voice but mine can reach thine ear,And Heaven has kindly sent me here,To mourn and sigh with thee,And tell thee of the cherished landOf thy nativity.'Blow

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