The Wuthering Tales: Heathcliff's Prologue
There was a boy—a gipsy, some said—
Whom many people looked on with dread.
He was quite the villainous fiend;
In every matter he intervened.
Quite a few had felt the control
Of this damned and wicked soul.
He used them all to fulfill his revenge,
His breathless, bloodless belovéd avenge.
This was his purpose, in every breath;
His very life had sprung from death.
While she was living, he'd hardly expressed
The love he'd felt to his very best.
Love he had, but more was his hate,
And so to none could he fully relate.
To haunt him he wanted her after she'd passed,
And haunt him she did to the very last.
His dark, cavern eyes—so full of rage—
Would often with her ghost engage.
His dark, foreign skin would then turn pale—
For when he saw her, he would quail.
In light of this, he wouldn't eat—
Seeing her ghost was his only treat—
And gradually, he withered away,
To never live another day.