Littell's Living Age/Volume 173/Issue 2242/Emily Bronte
A mountain harebell with a heart of fire
That, hidden in its heathclad fastness wild,
Blossomed unseen and died. No breezes mild
Of Southland summer, no applausive choir
Of easy adulation, taught to aspire
The austere genius of the moorland child,
Or with soft fanning airs her heart beguiled
From the stern solitude of its desire.
The lonely grandeur of the northern wold,
Its beauty bleak and gray, possessed her soul;
All its severe and desolate delights
She knew; to her was every secret told
Of stream and fell, of thunderstorms that roll
And wintry winds that rave round "Wuthering Heights."