Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell . Brontë Charlotte

There's sand and sea-weed on her robe,

           Her hollow eyes are blind;

           No pulse in such a frame can throb,

           No life is there defined.

           Gilbert turned ashy-white, but still

           His lips vouchsafed no cry;

           He spurred his strength and master-will

           To pass the figure by, —

           But, moving slow, it faced him straight,

           It would not flinch nor quail:

           Then first did Gilbert's strength abate,

           His stony firmness quail.

           He sank upon his knees and prayed

           The shape stood rigid there;

           He called aloud for human aid,

           No human aid was near.

           An accent strange did thus repeat

           Heaven's stern but just decree:

           "The measure thou to her didst mete,

           To thee shall measured be!"

           Gilbert sprang from his bended knees,

           By the pale spectre pushed,

           And, wild as one whom demons seize,

           Up the hall-staircase rushed;

           Entered his chamber – near the bed