Through blasted heather, twisted gorse,
Growling cloud and spite-filled sleet,
She wanders... drifts... her limpid eyes
Absorb the stormscape, seeking He
who haunts as only the living can -
her darker soul, her glowering man.
Through rainswept mist she sees the light:
A saturnine hulk, the Earnshaw curse.
Draws closer now, the memories vague,
Of childhood laughter, dreams that fade.
She sees the shadow through the pane,
And House becomes as Home again.
"So cold! So cold! Please let me in!
Heathcliff!" - Yet the sole riposte
is screaming... so she now floats back
And waits, in longing for the morn,
When he will come to make her whole,
When he shall claim his Cathy's soul.
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