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Best Famous Anne Bronte Poems


Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Anne Bronte poems. This is a select list of the best famous Anne Bronte poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Anne Bronte poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Anne Bronte poems.

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by Anne Bronte |

Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day

 My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas. 
The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves, beneath them, are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!


by Anne Bronte |

A Prayer

 My God (oh, let me call Thee mine,
Weak, wretched sinner though I be),
My trembling soul would fain be Thine;
My feeble faith still clings to Thee.

Not only for the Past I grieve,
The Future fills me with dismay;
Unless Thou hasten to relieve,
Thy suppliant is a castaway.

I cannot say my faith is strong,
I dare not hope my love is great;
But strength and love to Thee belong;
Oh, do not leave me desolate!

I know I owe my all to Thee;
Oh, TAKE the heart I cannot give!
Do Thou my strength--my Saviour be,
And MAKE me to Thy glory live.


by Anne Bronte |

The Students Serenade

 I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the day
Yet my weary soul opprest; 
And, before my dreaming eyes
Still the learned volumes lay,
And I could not close their leaves,
And I could not turn away. 

But I oped my eyes at last,
And I heard a muffled sound;
'Twas the night-breeze, come to say
That the snow was on the ground. 

Then I knew that there was rest
On the mountain's bosom free;
So I left my fevered couch,
And I flew to waken thee! 

I have flown to waken thee --
For, if thou wilt not arise,
Then my soul can drink no peace
From these holy moonlight skies. 

And, this waste of virgin snow
To my sight will not be fair,
Unless thou wilt smiling come,
Love, to wander with me there. 

Then, awake! Maria, wake!
For, if thou couldst only know
How the quiet moonlight sleeps
On this wilderness of snow, 

And the groves of ancient trees,
In their snowy garb arrayed,
Till they stretch into the gloom
Of the distant valley's shade; 

I know thou wouldst rejoice
To inhale this bracing air;
Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep
To behold a scene so fair. 

O'er these wintry wilds, alone,
Thou wouldst joy to wander free;
And it will not please thee less,
Though that bliss be shared with me.


by Anne Bronte |

The Arbour

 I'll rest me in this sheltered bower,
And look upon the clear blue sky
That smiles upon me through the trees,
Which stand so thickly clustering by; 
And view their green and glossy leaves,
All glistening in the sunshine fair;
And list the rustling of their boughs,
So softly whispering through the air. 

And while my ear drinks in the sound,
My winged soul shall fly away;
Reviewing long departed years
As one mild, beaming, autumn day; 

And soaring on to future scenes,
Like hills and woods, and valleys green,
All basking in the summer's sun,
But distant still, and dimly seen. 

Oh, list! 'tis summer's very breath
That gently shakes the rustling trees -­
But look! the snow is on the ground -­
How can I think of scenes like these? 

'Tis but the frost that clears the air,
And gives the sky that lovely blue;
They're smiling in a winter's sun,
Those evergreens of sombre hue. 

And winter's chill is on my heart -­
How can I dream of future bliss?
How can my spirit soar away,
Confined by such a chain as this?


by Anne Bronte |

The Bluebell

 A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power. 
There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.

Yet I recall not long ago
A bright and sunny day,
'Twas when I led a toilsome life
So many leagues away;

That day along a sunny road
All carelessly I strayed,
Between two banks where smiling flowers
Their varied hues displayed.

Before me rose a lofty hill,
Behind me lay the sea,
My heart was not so heavy then
As it was wont to be.

Less harassed than at other times
I saw the scene was fair,
And spoke and laughed to those around,
As if I knew no care.

But when I looked upon the bank
My wandering glances fell
Upon a little trembling flower,
A single sweet bluebell.

Whence came that rising in my throat,
That dimness in my eye?
Why did those burning drops distil --
Those bitter feelings rise?

O, that lone flower recalled to me
My happy childhood's hours
When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts
A prize among the flowers,

Those sunny days of merriment
When heart and soul were free,
And when I dwelt with kindred hearts
That loved and cared for me.

I had not then mid heartless crowds
To spend a thankless life
In seeking after others' weal
With anxious toil and strife. 

'Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times
That never may return!'
The lovely floweret seemed to say,
And thus it made me mourn.


by Anne Bronte |

The Captive Dove

 Poor restless dove, I pity thee; 
And when I hear thy plaintive moan, 
I mourn for thy captivity, 
And in thy woes forget mine own. 

To see thee stand prepared to fly, 
And flap those useless wings of thine, 
And gaze into the distant sky, 
Would melt a harder heart than mine. 

In vain-in vain! Thou canst not rise: 
Thy prison roof confines thee there; 
Its slender wires delude thine eyes, 
And quench thy longings with despair. 

Oh, thou wert made to wander free 
In sunny mead and shady grove, 
And, far beyond the rolling sea, 
In distant climes, at will to rove! 

Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate 
Thy little drooping heart to cheer, 
And share with thee thy captive state, 
Thou couldst be happy even there. 

Yes, even there, if, listening by, 
One faithful dear companion stood, 
While gazing on her full bright eye, 
Thou mightst forget thy native wood. 

But thou, poor solitary dove, 
Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan; 
The heart, that Nature formed to love, 
Must pine, neglected, and alone.


by Anne Bronte |

Music on Christmas Morning

 Music I love -­ but never strain
Could kindle raptures so divine,
So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
And rouse this pensive heart of mine -­
As that we hear on Christmas morn,
Upon the wintry breezes borne. 
Though Darkness still her empire keep,
And hours must pass, ere morning break;
From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,
That music kindly bids us wake:
It calls us, with an angel's voice,
To wake, and worship, and rejoice; 

To greet with joy the glorious morn,
Which angels welcomed long ago,
When our redeeming Lord was born,
To bring the light of Heaven below;
The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell. 

While listening to that sacred strain,
My raptured spirit soars on high;
I seem to hear those songs again
Resounding through the open sky,
That kindled such divine delight,
In those who watched their flocks by night. 

With them, I celebrate His birth -­
Glory to God, in highest Heaven,
Good-will to men, and peace on Earth,
To us a Saviour-king is given;
Our God is come to claim His own,
And Satan's power is overthrown! 

A sinless God, for sinful men,
Descends to suffer and to bleed;
Hell must renounce its empire then;
The price is paid, the world is freed,
And Satan's self must now confess,
That Christ has earned a Right to bless: 

Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,
And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:
The captive's galling bonds are riven,
For our Redeemer is our king;
And He that gave his blood for men
Will lead us home to God again.


by Anne Bronte |

My God! O let me call Thee mine!

 My God! O let me call Thee mine!
Weak wretched sinner though I be,
My trembling soul would fain be Thine,
My feeble faith still clings to Thee,
My feeble faith still clings to Thee. 
Not only for the past I grieve,
The future fills me with dismay;
Unless Thou hasten to relieve,
I know my heart will fall away,
I know my heart will fall away.

I cannot say my faith is strong,
I dare not hope my love is great;
But strength and love to Thee belong,
O, do not leave me desolate!
O, do not leave me desolate!

I know I owe my all to Thee,
O, take this heart I cannot give.
Do Thou my Strength my Saviour be;
And make me to Thy glory live!
And make me to Thy glory live!


by Anne Bronte |

My Soul is Awakened

 My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring, 
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze; 
For, above, and around me, the wild wind is roaring 
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas. 

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing, 
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high; 
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing, 
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky. 

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing 
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray, 
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing 
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!


by Anne Bronte |

The Narrow Way

 Believe not those who say
The upward path is smooth,
Lest thou shouldst stumble in the way
And faint before the truth. 
It is the only road
Unto the realms of joy;
But he who seeks that blest abode
Must all his powers employ.

Bright hopes and pure delights 
Upon his course may beam,
And there amid the sternest heights,
The sweetest flowerets gleam; --

On all her breezes borne
Earth yields no scents like those;
But he, that dares not grasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose.

Arm, arm thee for the fight!
Cast useless loads away:
Watch through the darkest hours of night;
Toil through the hottest day.

Crush pride into the dust,
Or thou must needs be slack;
And trample down rebellious lust,
Or it will hold thee back.

Seek not thy treasure here;
Waive pleasure and renown;
The World's dread scoff undaunted bear,
And face its deadliest frown.

To labour and to love,
To pardon and endure,
To lift thy heart to God above,
And keep thy conscience pure, --

Be this thy constant aim,
Thy hope and thy delight, --
What matters who should whisper blame,
Or who should scorn or slight?

What matters -- if thy God approve,
And if within thy breast,
Thou feel the comfort of his love,
The earnest of his rest?