Methought I saw him, but I knew him not,
He was so changed from what he used to be;
There was no redness in his woe-worn cheeks,
No sunny smile upon his ashy lips;
His hollow, wandering eyes looked wild and fierce,
And grief was printed on his marble brow;
And, oh, I thought he clasped his wasted hands,
And raised his haggard eyes to Heaven, and prayed
That he might die. I had no power to speak;
I thought I was allowed to see him thus,
And yet I might not speak one single word;
I might not even tell him that I lived,
And that it might be possible, if search were made,
To find out where I was, and set me free.
Oh! how I longed to clasp him to my heart,
Or but to hold his trembling hand in mine,
And speak one word of comfort to his mind.
I struggled wildly, but it was in vain :
I could not rise from my dark dungeon floor;
And the dear name I vainly strove to speak
Died in a voiceless whisper on my tongue.
Then I awoke, and, lo! it was a dream.
A dream? Alas! it was reality;
For well I know, wherever he may be,
He mourns me thus. Oh, Heaven! I could bear
My deadly fate with calmness if there were
No kindred hearts to bleed and break for me.
Alexandrina Zenobia. Anne Brontë.
Written January 24, 1838.