O transient voyager of heaven!

O silent sign of winter skies!

What adverse wind thy sail has driven

To dungeons where a prisoner lies?

 

Methinks the hands that shut the sun

So sternly from this mourning brow

Might still their rebel task have done

And checked a thing so frail as thou

 

They would have done it had they known

The talisman that dwelt in thee,

For all the suns that ever shone

Have never been so kind to me!

 

For many a week, and many a day

My heart was weighed with sinking gloom

When morning rose in mourning grey

And faintly lit my prison room

 

But angel like, when I awoke,

Thy silvery form so soft and fair

Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke

Of cloudy skies and mountains bare

 

The dearest to a mountaineer

Who, all life long has loved the snow

That crowned her native summits drear,

Better, than greenest plains below –

 

And voiceless, soulless messenger

Thy presence waked a thrilling tone

That comforts me while thou art here

And will sustain when thou art gone

– Emily Brontë

 

Morning rising in mourning grey: tobacco flower, white oud, lavender bud, and ambergris accord.