The School Bag

‘Silent is the House’

Emily Brontë

Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:	
One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep,	
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze	
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.	
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;	         
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;	
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:	
I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star.	
Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame!	
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame:	       
But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know,	
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.	
What I love shall come like visitant of air,	
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;	
What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray,	      
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.	
Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—	
Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:	
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;	
Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.