Ripples Of Time

A tribute to Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights.

Ere, I was always blithe and fain,
For love wean'd me day and night,
Along the glint of the morning light,
And through the drench of the rain.

But now, I roam the moorland blind,
As a bitter rover and a hapless wretch,
Thus banish'd from this world to dretch,
Bearing the burthen of a woe not kind.

I shall ween myself afterwards anew,
In the mimmering stars that tarry lorn,
When I shall need forthwith to mourn,
Amidst a soft wetness of the mild dew.

Be that prickly thorn, I cannot free,
Tease me with riddles and laughter,
Whisper oft into mine ears thereafter,
But do not forsake me, when I dree.

Hark to my beckon'd call by a window,
Where the gossamers drift along a dale,
Do not forget to wake me with a gale,
I shall not sleep, till I see the meadow.

O kiss my lips and fondle mine hair,
For I shall worship thee as thy thrall,
And abide the odd birr within the hall,
Where thou standest mighty and fair.

Comely, is the shade of our true love,
And those wistful words I have quoth,
Have since become toom and wroth,
With the flight of my lonesome dove.

Shun me not when I am in great need,
For I shall go mad if thou art to leave,
As I seek thee soon through the seave,
Whilst I wend through a brash I heed.

Haunt me like the shadow of death,
Before and behind my hasten'd step,
Feel my weary tears that slowly drip,
Know forsooth, my soul and breath.

Lead me onto the winds as I shall fly,
With heavenly wings of lasting bliss,
Whence, I shall ne'er die or be amiss,
For thou art my shield within the sky.

Amidst the morrow, I shall go forth,
Following the clouds that take me,
Into those ripples of time with thee,
Above an endless field heading north.

Thither, before the hummock nigh,
Lay the twain headstones unmark'd,
By their maker who had earmark'd,
A blashy brink of the old brow high.