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Best Famous Charlotte Bronte Poems

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Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

Life

 I made a posie, while the day ran by: 
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 
My life within this band.
But time did becken to the flowers, and they By noon most cunningly did steal away And wither'd in my hand.
My hand was next to them, and then my heart: I took, without more thinking, in good part Times gentle admonition: Who did so sweetly deaths sad taste convey Making my minde to smell my fatall day; Yet sugring the suspicion.
Farewell deare flowers, sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament, And after death for cures.
I follow straight without complaints or grief, Since if my sent be good, I care not, if It be as short as yours.


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

Stanzas

 WHEN fragrant gales and summer show'rs
Call'd forth the sweetly scented flow'rs;
When ripen'd sheaves of golden grain,
Strew'd their rich treasures o'er the plain;
When the full grape did nectar yield,
In tepid drops of purple hue; 
When the thick grove, and thirsty field,
Drank the soft show'r and bloom'd a-new; 
O then my joyful heart did say, 
"Sure this is Nature's Holy-day!" 

But when the yellow leaf did fade,
And every gentle flow'r decay'd;
When whistling winds, and drenching rain,
Swept with rude force the naked plain;
When o'er the desolated scene,
I saw the drifted snow descend; 
And sadness darken'd all the green,
And Nature's triumphs seem'd to end; 
O! then, my mourning heart did say,
"Thus Youth shall vanish, Life decay.
" When Beauty blooms, and Fortune smiles, And wealth the easy breast beguiles; When pleasure from her downy wings, Her soft bewitching incense flings; THEN, Friends look kind­and round the heart The brightest flames of passion move, False Flatt'ry's soothing strains impart The warmest Friendship­fondest Love; But when capricious FORTUNE flies, Then FRIENDSHIP fades;­and PASSION dies.


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

Life

 "What is this world?­thy school, O misery!
"Our only lesson is to learn to suffer.
" - YOUNG.
LOVE, thou sportive fickle boy, Source of anguish, child of joy, Ever wounding­ever smiling, Soothing still, and still beguiling; What are all thy boasted treasures, Tender sorrows, transient pleasures? Anxious hopes, and jealous fears, LAUGHING HOURS, and MOURNING YEARS.
What is FRIENDSHIP'S soothing name? But a shad'wy, vap'rish flame; Fancy's balm for ev'ry wound, Ever sought, but rarely found; What is BEAUTY ? but a flow'r, Blooming, fading in an hour; Deck'd with brightest tints at morn, At twilight with'ring on a thorn; Like the gentle Rose of spring, Chill'd by ev'ry zephyr's wing, Ah! how soon its colour flies, Blushes, trembles, falls, and dies.
What is YOUTH ? a smiling sorrow, Blithe to day, and sad to-morrow; Never fix'd, for ever ranging, Laughing, weeping, doating, changing; Wild, capricious, giddy, vain, Cloy'd with pleasure, nurs'd with pain; AGE steals on with wint'ry face, Ev'ry rapt'rous Hope to chase; Like a wither'd, sapless tree, Bow'd to chilling Fate's decree; Strip'd of all its foliage gay, Drooping at the close of day; What of tedious Life remains? Keen regrets and cureless pains; Till DEATH appears, a welcome friend, To bid the scene of sorrow end.


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Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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 will make the roses bloom, O why lament its fall ? Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily, Enjoy them as they fly ! What though Death at times steps in And calls our Best away ? What though sorrow seems to win, O'er hope, a heavy sway ? Yet hope again elastic springs, Unconquered, though she fell; Still buoyant are her golden wings, Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly, The day of trial bear, For gloriously, victoriously, Can courage quell despair !


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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 would burn, The heady fight to try ! Welcome nights of broken sleep, And days of carnage cold, Could I deem that thou wouldst weep To hear my perils told.
Tell me, if with wandering bands I roam full far away, Wilt thou, to those distant lands, In spirit ever stray ? Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar; Bid me­bid me go Where Seik and Briton meet in war, On Indian Sutlej's flow.
Blood has dyed the Sutlej's waves With scarlet stain, I know; Indus' borders yawn with graves, Yet, command me go ! Though rank and high the holocaust Of nations, steams to heaven, Glad I'd join the death-doomed host, Were but the mandate given.
Passion's strength should nerve my arm, Its ardour stir my life, Till human force to that dread charm Should yield and sink in wild alarm, Like trees to tempest-strife.
If, hot from war, I seek thy love, Darest thou turn aside ? Darest thou, then, my fire reprove, By scorn, and maddening pride ? No­my will shall yet control Thy will, so high and free, And love shall tame that haughty soul­ Yes­tenderest love for me.
I'll read my triumph in thine eyes, Behold, and prove the change; Then leave, perchance, my noble prize, Once more in arms to range.
I'd die when all the foam is up, The bright wine sparkling high; Nor wait till in the exhausted cup Life's dull dregs only lie.
Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward, Hope blest with fulness large, I'd mount the saddle, draw the sword, And perish in the charge!


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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, Wishing each sigh might be the last; Longing to see the shade of death O'er those beloved features cast; The cloud, the stillness that must part The darling of my life from me; And then to thank God from my heart, To thank him well and fervently; Although I knew that we had lost The hope and glory of our life; And now, benighted, tempest-tossed, Must bear alone the weary strife.


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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 haunting fears; Now, their very memory comes O'ercharged with tender tears.
Life and marriage I have known, Things once deemed so bright; Now, how utterly is flown Every ray of light ! 'Mid the unknown sea of life I no blest isle have found; At last, through all its wild wave's strife, My bark is homeward bound.
Farewell, dark and rolling deep ! Farewell, foreign shore ! Open, in unclouded sweep, Thou glorious realm before ! Yet, though I had safely pass'd That weary, vexed main, One loved voice, through surge and blast, Could call me back again.
Though the soul's bright morning rose O'er Paradise for me, William ! even from Heaven's repose I'd turn, invoked by thee ! Storm nor surge should e'er arrest My soul, exulting then: All my heaven was once thy breast, Would it were mine again !


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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 we deem Till like a phantom gliding near A stag bends down to drink the stream.
And far away a mountain zone, A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies, And one star, large and soft and lone, Silently lights the unclouded skies.


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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 nights in rosy riot fly, While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion, The memory of the Past may die.
But, there are hours of lonely musing, Such as in evening silence come, When, soft as birds their pinions closing, The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish A tender grief that is not woe; And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish, Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions, Float softly back­a faded dream; Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations, The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding, How longs it for that time to be, When, through the mist of years receding, Its woes but live in reverie ! And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, On evening shade and loneliness; And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer, Feel no untold and strange distress­ Only a deeper impulse given By lonely hour and darkened room, To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven, Seeking a life and world to come


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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 Nature holds Her court 'mid stately groves, Where she her majesty unfolds, And in fresh beauty moves; Where thousand birds of sweetest song, The wildly rushing storm And hundred streams which glide along, Her mighty concert form! Go where the woods in beauty sleep Bathed in pale Luna's light, Or where among their branches sweep The hollow sounds of night.
Go where the warbling nightingale In gushes rich doth sing, Till all the lonely, quiet vale With melody doth ring.
Go, sit upon a mountain steep, And view the prospect round; The hills and vales, the valley's sweep, The far horizon bound.
Then view the wide sky overhead, The still, deep vault of blue, The sun which golden light doth shed, The clouds of pearly hue.
And as you gaze on this vast scene Your thoughts will journey far, Though hundred years should roll between On Time's swift-passing car.
To ages when the earth was yound, When patriarchs, grey and old, The praises of their god oft sung, And oft his mercies told.
You see them with their beards of snow, Their robes of ample form, Their lives whose peaceful, gentle flow, Felt seldom passion's storm.
Then a calm, solemn pleasure steals Into your inmost mind; A quiet aura your spirit feels, A softened stillness kind.


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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,
Nor knows, that band of crystals bright, 
Her hasty touch untied.
It slips adown her silken dress, Falls glittering at her feet; Unmarked it falls, for she no less Pursues her labour sweet.
The very loveliest hour that shines, Is in that deep blue sky; The golden sun of June declines, It has not caught her eye.
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate, The white road, far away, In vain for her light footsteps wait, She comes not forth to-day.
There is an open door of glass Close by that lady's chair, From thence, to slopes of mossy grass, Descends a marble stair.
Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom Around the threshold grow; Their leaves and blossoms shade the room, From that sun's deepening glow.
Why does she not a moment glance Between the clustering flowers, And mark in heaven the radiant dance Of evening's rosy hours ? O look again ! Still fixed her eye, Unsmiling, earnest, still, And fast her pen and fingers fly, Urged by her eager will.
Her soul is in th' absorbing task; To whom, then, doth she write ? Nay, watch her still more closely, ask Her own eyes' serious light; Where do they turn, as now her pen Hangs o'er th' unfinished line ? Whence fell the tearful gleam that then Did in their dark spheres shine ? The summer-parlour looks so dark, When from that sky you turn, And from th' expanse of that green park, You scarce may aught discern.
Yet o'er the piles of porcelain rare, O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase, Sloped, as if leaning on the air, One picture meets the gaze.
'Tis there she turns; you may not see Distinct, what form defines The clouded mass of mystery Yon broad gold frame confines.
But look again; inured to shade Your eyes now faintly trace A stalwart form, a massive head, A firm, determined face.
Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek, A brow high, broad, and white, Where every furrow seems to speak Of mind and moral might.
Is that her god ? I cannot tell; Her eye a moment met Th' impending picture, then it fell Darkened and dimmed and wet.
A moment more, her task is done, And sealed the letter lies; And now, towards the setting sun She turns her tearful eyes.
Those tears flow over, wonder not, For by the inscription, see In what a strange and distant spot Her heart of hearts must be ! Three seas and many a league of land That letter must pass o'er, E'er read by him to whose loved hand 'Tis sent from England's shore.
Remote colonial wilds detain Her husband, loved though stern; She, 'mid that smiling English scene, Weeps for his wished return.


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

The Wifes 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 Thus, more than life itself to me ! Yes, close beside thee, let me kneel­ Give me thy hand that I may feel The friend so true­so tried­so dear, My heart's own chosen­indeed is near; And check me not­this hour divine Belongs to me­is fully mine.
'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside, After long absence­wandering wide; 'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes, A promise clear of stormless skies, For faith and true love light the rays, Which shine responsive to her gaze.
Aye,­well that single tear may fall; Ten thousand might mine eyes recall, Which from their lids, ran blinding fast, In hours of grief, yet scarcely past, Well may'st thou speak of love to me; For, oh ! most truly­I love thee ! Yet smile­for we are happy now.
Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow ? What say'st thou ? ' We must once again, Ere long, be severed by the main ? ' I knew not this­I deemed no more, Thy step would err from Britain's shore.
' Duty commands ?' 'Tis true­'tis just; Thy slightest word I wholly trust, Nor by request, nor faintest sigh Would I, to turn thy purpose, try; But, William­hear my solemn vow­ Hear and confirm !­with thee I go.
' Distance and suffering,' did'st thou say ? ' Danger by night, and toil by day ?' Oh, idle words, and vain are these; Hear me ! I cross with thee the seas.
Such risk as thou must meet and dare, I­thy true wife­will duly share.
Passive, at home, I will not pine; Thy toils­thy perils, shall be mine; Grant this­and be hereafter paid By a warm heart's devoted aid: 'Tis granted­with that yielding kiss, Entered my soul unmingled bliss.
Thanks, William­thanks ! thy love has joy, Pure­undefiled with base alloy; 'Tis not a passion, false and blind, Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind; Worthy, I feel, art thou to be Loved with my perfect energy.
This evening, now, shall sweetly flow, Lit by our clear fire's happy glow; And parting's peace-embittering fear, Is warned, our hearts to come not near; For fate admits my soul's decree, In bliss or bale­to go with thee !


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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 knee; You've never smiled nor turned your head What can you, sister, see ? ' ' Come hither, Jane, look down the field; How dense a mist creeps on ! The path, the hedge, are both concealed, Ev'n the white gate is gone; No landscape through the fog I trace, No hill with pastures green; All featureless is nature's face, All masked in clouds her mien.
' Scarce is the rustle of a leaf Heard in our garden now; The year grows old, its days wax brief, The tresses leave its brow.
The rain drives fast before the wind, The sky is blank and grey; O Jane, what sadness fills the mind On such a dreary day ! ' ' You think too much, my sister dear; You sit too long alone; What though November days be drear ? Full soon will they be gone.
I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair, Come, Emma, sit by me; Our own fireside is never drear, Though late and wintry wane the year, Though rough the night may be.
' ' The peaceful glow of our fireside Imparts no peace to me: My thoughts would rather wander wide Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.
I'm on a distant journey bound, And if, about my heart, Too closely kindred ties were bound, 'T would break when forced to part.
' ' Soon will November days be o'er: ' Well have you spoken, Jane: My own forebodings tell me more, For me, I know by presage sure, They'll ne'er return again.
Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me Will bring or joy or gloom; They reach not that Eternity Which soon will be my home.
' Eight months are gone, the summer sun Sets in a glorious sky; A quiet field, all green and lone, Receives its rosy dye.
Jane sits upon a shaded stile, Alone she sits there now; Her head rests on her hand the while, And thought o'ercasts her brow.
She's thinking of one winter's day, A few short months ago, When Emma's bier was borne away O'er wastes of frozen snow.
She's thinking how that drifted snow Dissolved in spring's first gleam, And how her sister's memory now Fades, even as fades a dream.
The snow will whiten earth again, But Emma comes no more; She left, 'mid winter's sleet and rain, This world for Heaven's far shore.
On Beulah's hills she wanders now, On Eden's tranquil plain; To her shall Jane hereafter go, She ne'er shall come to Jane !


Written by Charlotte Bronte | |

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 apart, And, for a little while, we know The sunshine of the heart.
Existence seems a summer eve, Warm, soft, and full of peace; Our free, unfettered feelings give The soul its full release.
A moment, then, it takes the power, To call up thoughts that throw Around that charmed and hallowed hour, This life's divinest glow.
But Time, though viewlessly it flies, And slowly, will not stay; Alike, through clear and clouded skies, It cleaves its silent way.
Alike the bitter cup of grief, Alike the draught of bliss, Its progress leaves but moment brief For baffled lips to kiss.
The sparkling draught is dried away, The hour of rest is gone, And urgent voices, round us, say, ' Ho, lingerer, hasten on !' And has the soul, then, only gained, From this brief time of ease, A moment's rest, when overstrained, One hurried glimpse of peace ? No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us, And flowers bloomed round our feet,­ While many a bud of joy before us Unclosed its petals sweet,­ An unseen work within was plying; Like honey-seeking bee, From flower to flower, unwearied, flying, Laboured one faculty,­ Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow, Its gloom and scarcity; Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow, Toiled quiet Memory.
'Tis she that from each transient pleasure Extracts a lasting good; 'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure To serve for winter's food.
And when Youth's summer day is vanished, And Age brings Winter's stress, Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished, Life's evening hours will bless.


Written by 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 stone; She cannot, from this burning breast, Wring one repentant moan.
Thou say'st, that when a sinless child, I duly bent the knee, And prayed to what in marble smiled Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.
I did.
But listen ! Children spring Full soon to riper youth; And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring, I sold my early truth.
'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine, Bent o'er me, when I said, ' That land and God and Faith are mine, For which thy fathers bled.
' I see thee not, my eyes are dim; But, well I hear thee say, ' O daughter, cease to think of him Who led thy soul astray.
Between you lies both space and time; Let leagues and years prevail To turn thee from the path of crime, Back to the Church's pale.
' And, did I need that thou shouldst tell What mighty barriers rise To part me from that dungeon-cell, Where my loved Walter lies ? And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt My dying hour at last, By bidding this worn spirit pant No more for what is past ? Priest­must I cease to think of him ? How hollow rings that word ! Can time, can tears, can distance dim The memory of my lord ? I said before, I saw not thee, Because, an hour agone, Over my eye-balls, heavily, The lids fell down like stone.
But still my spirit's inward sight Beholds his image beam As fixed, as clear, as burning bright, As some red planet's gleam.
Talk not of thy Last Sacrament, Tell not thy beads for me; Both rite and prayer are vainly spent, As dews upon the sea.
Speak not one word of Heaven above, Rave not of Hell's alarms; Give me but back my Walter's love, Restore me to his arms ! Then will the bliss of Heaven be won; Then will Hell shrink away, As I have seen night's terrors shun The conquering steps of day.
'Tis my religion thus to love, My creed thus fixed to be; Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break My rock-like constancy ! Now go; for at the door there waits Another stranger guest: He calls­I come­my pulse scarce beats, My heart fails in my breast.
Again that voice­how far away, How dreary sounds that tone ! And I, methinks, am gone astray In trackless wastes and lone.
I fain would rest a little while: Where can I find a stay, Till dawn upon the hills shall smile, And show some trodden way ? ' I come ! I come !' in haste she said, ' 'Twas Walter's voice I heard !' Then up she sprang­but fell back, dead, His name her latest word.