On this final evening of November, I am reminded of a beautiful poem by Emily Brontë written one hundred seventy-four years ago.
XIII Now trust a heart that trusts in you, And firmly say the word adieu ; Be sure, wherever I may roam, My heart is with your heart at home ; Unless there be no truth on earth, And vows most true are nothing worth, And mortal man have no control Over his own unhappy soul ; Unless I change in every thought, And memory will restore me nought, And all I have of virtue die Beneath far Gondal's foreign sky. The mountain peasant loves the heath Better than richest plains beneath ; He would not give one moorland wild For all the fields that ever smiled. And whiter brows than yours may be, And rosier cheeks my eyes may see, And lightning looks from orbs divine About my pathway burn and shine. But that pure light, changeless and strong, Cherished and watched and nursed so long ; That love that first its glory gave, Shall be my pole-star to the grave.
— Emily Brontë, November 1837