Charlotte Bronte

Apostasy

THIS last denial of my faith, Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard; And, though upon my bed of death, I call not back a word. Point not to thy Madonna, Priest, Thy sightless saint of

Winter Stores

WE take from life one little share, And say that this shall be A space, redeemed from toil and care, From tears and sadness free. And, haply, Death unstrings his bow And Sorrow stands

ARRANGING long-locked drawers and shelves Of cabinets, shut up for years, What a strange task we’ve set ourselves! How still the lonely room appears! How strange this mass of ancient treasures, Mementos of past

Frances

SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams Of moonlight through the hall are shed. Obedient to the goad of grief, Her

Passion

SOME have won a wild delight, By daring wilder sorrow; Could I gain thy love to-night, I’d hazard death to-morrow. Could the battle-struggle earn One kind glance from thine eye, How this withering heart

Stanzas

IF thou be in a lonely place, If one hour’s calm be thine, As Evening bends her placid face O’er this sweet day’s decline; If all the earth and all the heaven Now look

The Wife's Will

SIT stilla worda breath may break (As light airs stir a sleeping lake,) The glassy calm that soothes my woes, The sweet, the deep, the full repose. O leave me not! for ever be

Speak Of The North! A Lonely Moor

Speak of the North! A lonely moor Silent and dark and tractless swells, The waves of some wild streamlet pour Hurriedly through its ferny dells. Profoundly still the twilight air, Lifeless the landscape; so

The Teacher's Monologue

The room is quiet, thoughts alone People its mute tranquillity; The yoke put on, the long task done, I am, as it is bliss to be, Still and untroubled. Now, I see, For the

Gilbert

I. THE GARDEN. ABOVE the city hung the moon, Right o’er a plot of ground Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced With lofty walls around: ‘Twas Gilbert’s gardenthere, to-night Awhile he walked alone; And,

Presentiment

‘ SISTER, you’ve sat there all the day, Come to the hearth awhile; The wind so wildly sweeps away, The clouds so darkly pile. That open book has lain, unread, For hours upon your

The Wood

BUT two miles more, and then we rest! Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the brightness of the West Will light us on our devious way; Sit then, awhile, here

The Letter

What is she writing? Watch her now, How fast her fingers move! How eagerly her youthful brow Is bent in thought above! Her long curls, drooping, shade the light, She puts them quick aside,

Pilate's Wife's Dream

I’ve quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart Its light, even as I woke, on

Preference

NOT in scorn do I reprove thee, Not in pride thy vows I waive, But, believe, I could not love thee, Wert thou prince, and I a slave. These, then, are thine oaths of

Pleasure

A Short Poem or Else Not Say I True pleasure breathes not city air, Nor in Art’s temples dwells, In palaces and towers where The voice of Grandeur dwells. No! Seek it where high

Regret

Long ago I wished to leave ” The house where I was born; ” Long ago I used to grieve, My home seemed so forlorn. In other years, its silent rooms Were filled with

On The Death Of Anne Bronte

There’s little joy in life for me, And little terror in the grave; I’ve lived the parting hour to see Of one I would have died to save. Calmly to watch the failing breath,

Life

LIFE, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say; Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; If the shower

Parting

THERE’S no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part: There’s such a thing as keeping A remembrance in one’s heart: There’s such a thing as dwelling On the thought ourselves have nurs’d,

The Missionary

Lough, vessel, plough the British main, Seek the free ocean’s wider plain; Leave English scenes and English skies, Unbind, dissever English ties; Bear me to climes remote and strange, Where altered life, fast-following change,

Evening Solace

THE human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed. And days may pass in gay confusion, And