Yes, Holy Be Thy Resting Place

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Yes, holy be thy resting place
  Wherever thou may'st lie;
  The sweetest winds breathe on thy face,
  The softest of the sky.

  And will not guardian Angles send
  Kind dreams and thoughts of love,
  Though I no more may watchful bend
  Thy longed repose above?

  And will not heaven itself bestow
  A beam of glory there
  That summer's grass more green may grow,
  And summer's flowers more fair?

  Farewell, farewell, 'tis hard to part
  Yet, loved one, it must be:
  I would not rend another heart
  Not even by blessing thee.

  Go! We must break affection's chain,
  Forget the hopes of years:
  Nay, grieve not - willest thou remain
  To waken wilder tears

  This herald breeze with thee and me,
  Roved in the dawning day:
  And thou shouldest be where it shall be
  Ere evening, far away.

© Emily Jane Brontë