Harp of wild and dreamy strain, when I touch thy strings,
Why sound out of long forgotten things?
Harp, in other, earlier days, I could sing to thee;
And not one of all my lays vexed my memory.
But now, if I awake a note that gave me joy before
Sounds of sorrow from thee float,
Changing evermore.
Yet, still steeped in memory’s dyes, come sailing on,
Darkening my summer skies,
Shutting out my sun.
poem by Emily Brontë, music by Lothar Klein