I've loved this poem, 'No coward soul is mine,' by Emily Bronte, for some time now. It's beautiful, uplifting, mesmerizing. When I stop to consider that she had a short life, that she died of disease so easily cured now, I used to think that she was probably angry at her portion in life. She wrote so deeply. Imagine what works her hands would have rendered if she had have lived longer. But, one cannot live by those suppositions. And I do not think she did. For when we read 'No coward soul is mine,' we get the sense that she knew her destination, and was glad in it.