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Best Famous Emily Bronte Poems

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by Emily Bronte | |

The Philosopher

 "Enough of thought, philosopher!
Too long hast thou been dreaming
Unlightened, in this chamber drear,
While summer's sun is beaming!
Space - sweeping soul, what sad refrain
Concludes thy musings once again? 

"Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
Without identity,
And never care how rain may steep,
Or snow may cover me!
No promised heaven, these wild desires,
Could all, or half fulfil;
No threathened hell, with quenchless fires,
Subdue this quenchless will!" 

"So said I, and still say the same;
Still, to my death, will say -
Three gods, within this little frame,
Are warring night and day;
Heaven could not hold them all, and yet 
They all are held in me;
And must be mine till I forget
My present entity!
Oh, for the time, when in my breast
Their struggles will be o'er!
Oh, for the day, when I shall rest,
And never suffer more!" 

"I saw a spirit, standing, man,
Where thou dost stand - an hour ago, 
And round his feet three rivers ran,
Of equal depth, and equal flow -
"A golden stream - and one like blood;
And one like sapphire, seemed to be;
But, where they joined their triple flood
It tumbled in an inky sea.
The spirit sent his dazzling gaze Down through that ocean's gloomy night Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze, The glad deep sparkled wide and bright - White as the sun, far, far more fair Than its divided sources were!" "And even for that spirit, seer, I've watched and sought my life - time long; Sought him in heaven, hell, earth and air - An endless search, and always wrong! Had I but seen his glorious eye Once light the clouds that wilder me, I ne'er had raised this coward cry To cease to think and cease to be; I ne'er had called oblivion blest, Nor, stretching eager hands to death, Implored to change for senseless rest This sentient soul, this living breath - Oh, let me die - that power and will Their cruel strife may close; And conquered good, and conquering ill Be lost in one repose!"


by Emily Bronte | |

The Visionary

 Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: 
One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep, 
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze 
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far: I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star.
Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame! Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame: But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know, What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.
What I love shall come like visitant of air, Safe in secret power from lurking human snare; What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray, Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.
Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear— Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.


by Emily Bronte | |

Plead For Me

 Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me
And tell, why I have chosen thee! 

Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say,
Why I did cast the world away.
Why I have persevered to shun The common paths that others run, And on a strange road journeyed on, Heedless, alike, of wealth and power - Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower.
These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine; And they, perchance, heard vows of mine, And saw my offerings on their shrine; But, careless gifts are seldom prized, And mine were worthily despised.
So, with a ready heart I swore To seek their altar-stone no more; And gave my spirit to adore Thee, ever - present, phantom thing; My slave, my comrade, and my king, A slave, because I rule thee still; Incline thee to my changeful will, And make thy influence good or ill: A comrade, for by day and night Thou art my intimate delight, - My darling pain that wounds and sears And wrings a blessing out from tears By deadening me to earthly cares; And yet, a king, though Prudence well Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And am I wrong to worship, where Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair, Since my own soul can grant my prayer? Speak, God of visions, plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee !


More great poems below...

by Emily Bronte | |

Self-Interrogation

 The evening passes fast away,
'Tis almost time to rest;
What thoughts has left the vanished day,
What feelings, in thy breast? 

"The vanished day? It leaves a sense 
Of labour hardly done;
Of little, gained with vast expense, -
A sense of grief alone! 

"Time stands before the door of Death,
Upbraiding bitterly;
And Conscience, with exhaustless breath,
Pours black reproach on me: 

"And though I've said that Conscience lies,
And Time should Fate condemn;
Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes,
And makes me yield to them! 

"Then art thou glad to seek repose?
Art glad to leave the sea,
And anchor all thy weary woes
In calm Eternity? 

"Nothing regrets to see thee go -
Not one voice sobs "farewell,"
And where thy heart has suffered so,
Canst thou desire to dwell?" 

"Alas! The countless links are strong 
That bind us to our clay;
The loving spirit lingers long,
And would not pass away! 

"And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame
Will crown the soldier's crest;
But, a brave heart, with a tarnished name,
Would rather fight than rest.
" "Well, thou hast fought for many a year, Hast fought thy whole life through, Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear; What is there left to do?" "'Tis true, this arm has hotly striven, Has dared what few would dare; Much have I done, and freely given, But little learnt to bear!" "Look on the grave, where thou must sleep, Thy last, and strongest foe; It is endurance not to weep, If that repose seem woe.
"The long war closing in defeat, Defeat serenely borne, Thy midnight rest may still be sweet, And break in glorious morn!"


by Emily Bronte | |

Wind was Rough which Tore The

 The wind was rough which tore
That leaf from its parent tree 
The fate was cruel which bore 
The withering corpse to me 

We wander on we have no rest
It is a dreary way 

What shadow is it
That ever moves before [my] eyes 
It has a brow of ghostly whiteness


by Emily Bronte | |

Wind was Rough which Tore The

 The wind was rough which tore
That leaf from its parent tree 
The fate was cruel which bore 
The withering corpse to me 

We wander on we have no rest
It is a dreary way 

What shadow is it
That ever moves before [my] eyes 
It has a brow of ghostly whiteness


by Emily Bronte | |

Far far away is mirth withdrawn

 Far, far away is mirth withdrawn
'Tis three long hours before the morn
And I watch lonely, drearily -
So come thou shade commune with me 

Deserted one ! thy corpse lies cold
And mingled with a foreign mould -
Year after year the grass grows green
Above the dust where thou hast been.
I will not name thy blighted name Tarnished by unforgotton shame Though not because my bosom torn Joins the mad world in all its scorn - Thy phantom face is dark with woe Tears have left ghastly traces there, Those ceaseless tears ! I wish their flow Could quench thy wild despair.
They deluge my heart like the rain On cursed Gomorrah's howling plain - Yet when I hear thy foes deride I must cling closely to thy side - Our mutual foes - they will not rest From trampling on thy buried breast - Glutting there hatred with the doom They picture thine, beyond the tomb - But God is not like human kind Man cannot read the Almighty mind Vengeance will never tortue they Nor hunt thy soul eternally Then do not in this night of grief This time of over whelming fear O do not think that God can leave Forget, forsake, refuse to hear ! - What have I dreamt ? He lies asleep With whom my heart would vainly weep He rests - and I endure the woe That left his spirit long ago -


by Emily Bronte | |

High waving heather neath stormy blasts bending

 High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending, 
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars, 
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending, 
Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending, 
Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending, 
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
All down the mountain sides wild forests lending One mighty voice to the life-giving wind, Rivers their banks in their jubilee rending, Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending, Wider and deeper their waters extending, Leaving a desolate desert behind.
Shining and lowering and swelling and dying, Changing forever from midnight to noon; Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing, Shadows on shadows advancing and flying, Lighning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying, Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.


by Emily Bronte | |

That Wind I Used to Hear it Swelling

 That wind I used to hear it swelling
With joy divinely deep
You might have seen my hot tears welling
But rapture made me weep 

I used to love on winter nights
To lie and dream alone
Of all the hopes and real delights
My early years had known 

And oh above the rest of those
That coming time should [bear]
Like heaven's own glorious stars they rose
Still beaming bright and fair


by Emily Bronte | |

A little while a little while

 A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.
Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart, What thought, what scene invites thee now? What spot, or near or far, Has rest for thee, my weary brow? There is a spot, mid barren hills, Where winter howls, and driving rain; But if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight's dome; But what on earth is half so dear, So longed for, as the hearth of home? The mute bird sitting on the stone, The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, I love them, how I love them all! Still, as I mused, the naked room, The alien firelight died away, And from the midst of cheerless gloom I passed to bright unclouded day.
A little and a lone green lane That opened on a common wide; A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain Of mountains circling every side; A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; And, deepening still the dream-like charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
That was the scene, I knew it well; I knew the turfy pathway's sweep That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.
Even as I stood with raptured eye, Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear, My hour of rest had fleeted by, And back came labour, bondage, care.


by Emily Bronte | |

Come hither child

 Come hither, child--who gifted thee 
With power to touch that string so well? 
How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me, 
Thoughts that I would--but cannot quell?

Nay, chide not, lady; long ago 
I heard those notes in Ula's hall, 
And had I known they'd waken woe 
I'd weep their music to recall.
But thus it was: one festal night When I was hardly six years old I stole away from crowds and light And sought a chamber dark and cold.
I had no one to love me there, I knew no comrade and no friend; And so I went to sorrow where Heaven, only heaven saw me bend.
Loud blew the wind; 'twas sad to stay From all that splendour barred away.
I imaged in the lonely room A thousand forms of fearful gloom.
And with my wet eyes raised on high I prayed to God that I might die.
Suddenly in that silence drear A sound of music reached my ear, And then a note, I hear it yet, So full of soul, so deeply sweet, I thought that Gabriel's self had come To take me to thy father's home.
Three times it rose, that seraph strain, Then died, nor breathed again; But still the words and still the tone Dwell round my heart when all alone.


by Emily Bronte | |

My Comforter

 Well hast thou spoken, and yet, not taught
A feeling strange or new;
Thou hast but roused a latent thought,
A cloud-closed beam of sunshine, brought 
To gleam in open view.
Deep down, concealed within my soul, That light lies hid from men; Yet, glows unquenched - though shadows roll, Its gentle ray cannot control, About the sullen den.
Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long? Around me, wretches uttering praise, Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue; - A brotherhood of misery, Their smiles as sad as sighs; Whose madness daily maddened me, Distorting into agony The bliss before my eyes! So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, And in the glare of Hell; My spirit drank a mingled tone, Of seraph's song, and demon's moan; What my soul bore, my soul alone Within itself may tell! Like a soft air, above a sea, Tossed by the tempest's stir; A thaw-wind, melting quietly The snow-drift, on some wintry lea; No: what sweet thing resembles thee, My thoughtful Comforter? And yet a little longer speak, Calm this resentful mood; And while the savage heart grows meek, For other token do not seek, But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude!


by Emily Bronte | |

Speak God Of Visions

 O, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
O, thy sweet tongue must plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!

Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say
Why I did cast the world away;

Why I have presevered to shun
The common paths that others run,
And on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless alike of wealth and power,
Of Glory's wreath and Pleasure's flower.
These once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine; And they, perchance, heard vows of mine, And saw my offerings on their shrine; But careless gifts are seldom prized, And mine were worthily despised.
So, with a ready heart I swore To seek their altar-stone no more; And gave my spirit to adore Thee, ever-present, phantom thing— My slave, my comrade, and my king.
A slave, because I rule thee still, Incline thee to my changeful will, And make thy influence good or ill; A comrade, for by day and night Thou art my intimate delight,— My darling pain that wounds and sears, And wrings a blessing out of tears Be deadening me to earthly cares; And yet, a king, though Prudence well Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And I am wrong to worship where Faith cannot doubt, nor Hope despair, Since my own soul can grant my prayer? Speak, God of Visions, plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee!


by Emily Bronte | |

To Imagination

 When weary with the long day's care,
And earthly change from pain to pain,
And lost and ready to despair,
Thy kind voice calls me back again:
Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,
While thou canst speak with such a tone! 

So hopeless is the world without;
The world within I doubly prize;
Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,
And cold suspicion never rise;
Where thou, and I, and Liberty,
Have undisputed sovereignty.
What matters it, that, all around, Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie, If but within our bosom's bound We hold a bright, untroubled sky, Warm with ten thousand mingled rays Of suns that know no winter days? Reason, indeed, may oft complain For Nature's sad reality, And tell the suffering heart, how vain Its cherished dreams must always be; And Truth may rudely trample down The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown: But, thou art ever there, to bring The hovering vision back, and breathe New glories o'er the blighted spring, And call a lovelier Life from Death, And whisper, with a voice divine, Of real worlds, as bright as thine.
I trust not to thy phantom bliss, Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour, With never-failing thankfulness, I welcome thee, Benignant Power; Sure solacer of human cares, And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!


by Emily Bronte | |

The Night is Darkening Around Me

 The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow ;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow ; The storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below ; But nothing drear can move me : I will not, cannot go.


by Emily Bronte | |

The Prisoner

 Still let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear
Year after year in gloom and desolate despair;
A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,
And offers for short life, eternal liberty.
He comes with western winds, with evening's wandering airs, With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars: Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.
Desire for nothing known in my maturer years, When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears: When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm, I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunderstorm.
But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends; The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends; Mute music soothes my breast—unuttered harmony That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.
Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels; Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found; Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.
O dreadful is the check—intense the agony— When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again, The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.
Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less; The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless; And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine, If it but herald Death, the vision is divine.


by Emily Bronte | |

The Night - Wind

 In summer's mellow midnight,
A cloudless moon shone through
Our open parlour window,
And rose-trees wet with dew.
I sat in silent musing; The soft wind waved my hair; It told me heaven was glorious, And sleeping earth was fair.
I needed not its breathing To bring such thoughts to me; But still it whispered lowly, 'How dark the woods would be! 'The thick leaves in my murmur Are rustling like a dream, And all their myriad voices Instinct with spirit seem.
' I said, 'Go, gentle singer, Thy wooing voice is kind: But do not think its music Has power to reach my mind.
'Play with the scented flower, The young tree's supply bough, And leave my human feelings In their own course to flow.
' The wanderer would not heed me: Its kiss grew warmer still: 'Oh Come!' it sighed so sweetly; 'I'll win thee 'gainst thy will.
'Were we not friends from childhood? Have I not loved thee long? As long as thou, the solemn night, Whose silence wakes my song.
'And when thy heart is resting Beneath the church-aisle stone, I shall have time for mourning, And thou for being alone.
'


by Emily Bronte | |

Night is Darkening Around Me The

 The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow ;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow ; The storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below ; But nothing drear can move me : I will not, cannot go.


by Emily Bronte | |

Shall Earth No More Inspire Thee

 Shall Earth no more inspire thee,
Thou lonely dreamer now ?
Since passion may not fire thee
Shall nature cease to bow ? 

Thy mind is ever moving
In regions dark to thee;
Recall its useless roving -
Come back and dwell with me - 

I know my mountain breezes
Enchant annd soothe thee still -
I know my sunshine pleases
Despite thy wayward will - 

When day with evening blending
Sinks from the summer sky,
I've seen thy spirit bending
In fond idolotry - 

I've watched thee every hour -
I know my mighty sway -
I know my magic power
To drive thy griefs away - 

Few hearts to mortal given
On earth so wildly pine
Yet none would ask a Heaven
More like this Earth than thine - 

Then let my winds caress thee -
Thy comrade let me be -
Since nought beside can bless thee
Return and dwell with me -


by Emily Bronte | |

Me thinks this heart...

 Me thinks this heart should rest awhile
So stilly round the evening falls
The veiled sun sheds no parting smile
Nor mirth nor music wakes my Halls 

I have sat lonely all the day
Watching the drizzly mist descend
And first conceal the hills in grey
And then along the valleys wend 

And I have sat and watched the trees
And the sad flowers how drear they blow
Those flowers were formed to feel the breeze
Wave their light leaves in summer's glow 

Yet their lives passed in gloomy woe
And hopeless comes its dark decline
And I lament because I know
That cold departure pictures mine


by Emily Bronte | |

Last Lines

 NO coward soul is mine, 
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: 
I see Heaven's glories shine, 
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life--that in me has rest, As I--undying Life--have power in Thee! Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts: unutterably vain; Worthless as wither'd weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity; So surely anchor'd on The steadfast rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing love Thy Spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes cease to be, And Thou were left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou--Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.


by Emily Bronte | |

The Old Stoic

 Riches I hold in light esteem,
And love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream
That vanish'd with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal,
'Tis all that I implore:
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure


by Emily Bronte | |

How still how happy!

 How still, how happy! Those are words
That once would scarce agree together;
I loved the plashing of the surge -
The changing heaven the breezy weather, 

More than smooth seas and cloudless skies
And solemn, soothing, softened airs
That in the forest woke no sighs
And from the green spray shook no tears.
How still, how happy! now I feel Where silence dwells is sweeter far Than laughing mirth's most joyous swell However pure its raptures are.
Come, sit down on this sunny stone: 'Tis wintry light o'er flowerless moors - But sit - for we are all alone And clear expand heaven's breathless shores.
I could think in the withered grass Spring's budding wreaths we might discern; The violet's eye might shyly flash And young leaves shoot among the fern.
It is but thought - full many a night The snow shall clothe those hills afar And storms shall add a drearier blight And winds shall wage a wilder war, Before the lark may herald in Fresh foliage twined with blossoms fair And summer days again begin Their glory - haloed crown to wear.
Yet my heart loves December's smile As much as July's golden beam; Then let us sit and watch the while The blue ice curdling on the stream -


by Emily Bronte | |

My Ladys Grave

 THE linnet in the rocky dells, 
The moor-lark in the air, 
The bee among the heather bells 
That hide my lady fair: 

The wild deer browse above her breast; 
The wild birds raise their brood; 
And they, her smiles of love caress'd, 
Have left her solitude! 

I ween that when the grave's dark wall 
Did first her form retain, 
They thought their hearts could ne'er recall 
The light of joy again.
They thought the tide of grief would flow Uncheck'd through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears? Well, let them fight for honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue-- The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.
And if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh! Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound: And murmur, summer streams! There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.


by Emily Bronte | |

Anticipation

 How beautiful the earth is still, 
To thee - how full of happiness!
How little fraught with real ill,
Or unreal phantoms of distress!
How spring can bring thee glory, yet,
And summer win thee to forget
December's sullen time!
Why dost thou hold the treasure fast,
Of youth's delight, when youth is past,
And thou art near thy prime? 

When those who were thy own compeers,
Equals in fortune and in years,
Have seen their morning melt in tears,
To clouded, smileless day;
Blest, had they died untried and young,
Before their hearts went wandering wrong,
Poor slaves, subdued by passions strong,
A weak and helpless prey! 

" Because, I hoped while they enjoyed,
And, by fulfilment, hope destroyed;
As children hope, with trustful breast,
I waited bliss - and cherished rest.
A thoughtful spirit taught me, soon, That we must long till life be done; That every phase of earthly joy Must always fade, and always cloy: This I foresaw - and would not chase The fleeting treacheries; But, with firm foot and tranquil face, Held backward from that tempting race, Gazed o'er the sands the waves efface, To the enduring seas - ; There cast my anchor of desire Deep in unknown eternity; Nor ever let my spirit tire, With looking for what is to be! It is hope's spell that glorifies, Like youth, to my maturer eyes, All Nature's million mysteries, The fearful and the fair - Hope soothes me in the griefs I know; She lulls my pain for others' woe, And makes me strong to undergo What I am born to bear.
Glad comforter! will I not brave, Unawed, the darkness of the grave? Nay, smile to hear Death's billows rave - Sustained, my guide, by thee? The more unjust seems present fate, The more my spirit swells elate, Strong, in thy strength, to anticipate Rewarding destiny !"