Thousand miles are stretched between,
Many a mountain's stormy crest,
Many a desert void of green.
Wasted, worn is the traveller;
Dark his heard and dim his eye;
Without hope or comforter,
Faultering, faint, and ready to die.
Often he looks to the ruthless sky,
Often he looks o'er his dreary road,
Often he wishes down to lie
And render up life's tiresome load.
But yet faint not, mournful man;
Leagues on leagues are left behind
Since your sunless course began;
Then go on to toil resigned.
If you still despair control,
Hush its whispers in your breast,
You shall reach the final goal,
You shall win the land of rest.
Emily Bronte (1818-1848)