Just came across this one by an author not everyone realizes was a poet.
The wind, I hear it sighing
With Autumn's saddest sound;
Withered leaves as thick are lying
As spring-flowers on the ground.
This dark night has won me
To wander far away;
Old feelings gather fast upon me
Like vultures round their prey.
Kind were they once, and cherished,
But cold and cheerless now;
I would their lingering shades had perished
When their light left my brow.
'Tis like old age pretending
The softness of a child,
My altered, hardened spirit bending
To meet their fancies wild.
Yet could I with past pleasures
Past woe's oblivion buy,
That by the death of my dearest treasures
My deadliest pains might die,
O then another daybreak
Might haply dawn above,
Another summer gild my cheek,
My soul, another love.
-- Emily Bronte, The Wind, I Hear It Sighing
P.S.
I don't know what y'all think, but now that I've read over this, I'm sorry I posted it. I think that's one of the worst pieces of poetry I've read in a good while.
