Nor have they felt, nor can they tell
  What tenants haunt each mortal cell,
  What gloomy guests we hold within,
  Torments and madness, fear and sin! 
  Well, may they live in ecstasy
  Their long eternity of joy;
  At least we would not bring them down
  With us to weep, with us to groan. 
  No, Earth would wish no other sphere
  To taste her cup of suffering drear;
  She turns from heaven a tearless eye
  And only mourns that we must die! 
  Ah mother! what shall comfort thee
  In all this boundless misery? 
  To cheer our eager eyes awhile,
  We see thee smile, how fondly smile! 
  But who reads not through the tender glow
  Thy deep, unutterable woe? 
  Indeed no darling hand above
  Can cheat thee of thy children’s love. 
  We all, in life’s departing shine,
  Our last dear longings blend with thine,
  And struggle still, and strive to trace
  With clouded gaze thy darling face. 
  We would not leave our nature home
  For any world beyond the tomb. 
  No, mother, on thy kindly breast
  Let us be laid in lasting rest,
  Or waken but to share with thee
  A mutual immortality.

There is the whole spirit of Wuthering Heights; the spirit of Catherine Earnshaw’s dream; the spirit that in the last page broods over the moorland graveyard.  It is instinct with a more than pagan adoration of the tragic earth, adored because of her tragedy.

It would be dangerous to assert positively that “Remembrance” belongs to the same song-cycle; but it undoubtedly belongs to the same cycle, or rather cyclone, of passion; the cyclone that rages in the hearts of Heathcliff and of Catherine.  The genius of Emily Bronte was so far dramatic that, if you could divide her poems into the personal and impersonal, the impersonal would be found in a mass out of all proportion to the other.  But, with very few exceptions, you cannot so divide them; for in her continuous and sustaining dream, the vision that lasted for at least eleven years of her life, from eighteen-thirty-four, the earliest date of any known Gondal poem, to eighteen-forty-five, the last appearance of the legend, she was these people; she lived, indistinguishably and interchangeably, their tumultuous and passionate life.  Sometimes she is the lonely spirit that looks on in immortal irony, raised above good and evil.  More often she is a happy god, immanent in his restless and manifold creations, rejoicing in this multiplication of himself.  It is she who fights and rides, who loves and hates, and suffers and defies.  She heads one poem naively:  “To the Horse Black Eagle that I rode at the Battle of Zamorna.”  The horse I rode!  If it were not glorious, it would be (when you think what her life was in that Parsonage) most mortally pathetic.

But it is all in keeping.  For, as she could dare the heavenly, divine adventure, so there was no wild and ardent adventure of the earth she did not claim.