I was the nerd who read Wuthering Heights in the summer of eighth grade, developing a serious crush on the palsied Linton Heathcliff. Although only a handful of her poems ranks beside that novel, Emily Brontë would insist, I’m sure, on “No coward soul is mine” as a complement. Happy June.
No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven’s glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from FearO God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest,
As I Undying Life, have power in TheeVain are the thousand creeds
That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless mainTo waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rearsThough earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in theeThere is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.