The wind on Crow Hill was her darling.
His fierce, high tide in her ear was her secret.
But his kiss was fatal.
Through her dark Paradise ran
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 her womb.
The stone swelled under her heart.
Her death is a baby-cry on the moor.
This is open to interpretation. Emily’s heart may have been like stone in relation to real men — there is no biographical evidence of her ever having a relationship with a man. But the stones of the moors were what she loved, and these are what, appropriately, lived closest to her heart when she died.
Emily Brontë