Dark winter

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.  
...
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.


   The Visionary 
Emily Brontë