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
Mementos
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