Emily Brontë
The wind on Crow Hill was her darling
His fierce, high tale in her ear was her secret
But his kiss was fatal
Through her dark
The stream she loved too well
That bit her breast
The shaggy sodden king of that kingdom
Followed through the wall
And lay on her love-sick bed
The curlew trod in her womb
The stone swelled under her heart
Her death is a baby-cry on the moor
Ted Hughes
From " Remains of Elmet "
Copyright 1979