I Am The Only Being Whose Doom

I am the only being whose doom

No tongue would ask no eye would mourn

I never caused a thought of gloom

A smile of joy since I was born

In secret pleasure, secret tears

This changeful life has slipped away

As friendless after eighteen years

As lone as on my natal day

There have been times I cannot hide

There have been times when this was drear

When my sad soul forgot its pride

And longed for one to love me here

But those were in the early glow

Of feelings since subdued by care

And they have died so long ago

I hardly now believe they were

First melted off the hope of youth

Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew

And then experience told me truth

In mortal bosoms never grew

'Twas grief enough to think mankind

All hollow servile insincere,

But worse to trust to my own mind

And find the same corruption there

Emily Brontë

Emily Brontë (born July 30, 1818, Thornton, Yorkshire, England—died December 19, 1848, Haworth, Yorkshire) English novelist and poet who produced but one novel, Wuthering Heights (1847), a highly imaginative work of passion and hate set on the Yorkshire moors. Emily was perhaps the greatest of the three Brontë sisters, but the record of her life is extremely meagre, for she was silent and reserved and left no correspondence of interest, and her single novel darkens rather than solves the mystery of her spiritual existence. Emily went on to write almost 200 poems in her life but only a small fraction were published in her life time (Brownson). Her only novel,Wuthering Heights, is one of her most famous works. Emily was often seen as a very strange woman who never was able to leave this isolation. In September 1848. She became sick with consumption and refused medical attention in October 1848. Emily sadly died at the age of 30 only a few months later on December 9 (Brownson).

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