Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership


See and share Beautiful Nature Photos and amazing photos of interesting places




Best Famous Emily Bronte Poems

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

Search for the best famous Emily Bronte poems, articles about Emily Bronte poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Emily Bronte poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

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 |

Far far away is mirth withdrawn

 Far, far away is mirth withdrawn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 |

Prisoner The - (A Fragment)

 In the dungeon-crypts, idly did I stray,
Reckless of the lives wasting there away;
"Draw the ponderous bars! open, Warder stern!"
He dared not say me nay - the hinges harshly turn.
"Our guests are darkly lodged," I whisper'd, gazing through The vault, whose grated eye showed heaven more grey than blue; (This was when glad spring laughed in awaking pride;) "Aye, darkly lodged enough!" returned my sullen guide.
Then, God forgive my youth; forgive my careless tongue; I scoffed, as the chill chains on the damp flag-stones rung: "Confined in triple walls, art thou so much to fear, That we must bind thee down and clench thy fetters here?" The captive raised her face, it was as soft and mild As sculpted marble saint, or slumbering unwean'd child; It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair, Pain could not trace a line, nor grief a shadow there! The captive raised her hand and pressed it to her brow; "I have been struck," she said, "and I am suffering now; Yet these are little worth, your bolts and irons strong, And, were they forged in steel, they could not hold me long.
" Hoarse laughed the jailor grim: "Shall I be won to hear; Dost think, fond, dreaming wretch, that I shall grant thy prayer? Or, better still, wilt melt my master's heart with groans? Ah! sooner might the sun thaw down these granite stones.
"My master's voice is low, his aspect bland and kind, But hard as hardest flint, the soul that lurks behind; And I am rough and rude, yet not more rough to see Than is the hidden ghost that has its home in me.
" About her lips there played a smile of almost scorn, "My friend," she gently said, "you have not heard me mourn; When you my kindred's lives, my lost life, can restore, Then I may weep and sue, - but never, friend, before! Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doom'd 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 thunder storm.
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 gulph, it stoops, and dares the final bound.
Oh, 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!" She ceased to speak, and we, unanswering, turned to go - We had no further power to work the captive woe: Her cheek, her gleaming eye, declared that man had given A sentence, unapproved, and overruled by Heaven.


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 |

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 |

Honours Martyr

 The moon is full this winter night;
The stars are clear, though few;
And every window glistens bright,
With leaves of frozen dew.
The sweet moon through your lattice gleams And lights your room like day; And there you pass, in happy dreams, The peaceful hours away! While I, with effort hardly quelling The anguish in my breast, Wander about the silent dwelling, And cannot think of rest.
The old clock in the gloomy hall Ticks on, from hour to hour; And every time its measured call Seems lingering slow and slower: And oh, how slow that keen-eyed star Has tracked the chilly grey! What, watching yet! how very far The morning lies away! Without your chamber door I stand; Love, are you slumbering still? My cold heart, underneath my hand, Has almost ceased to thrill.
Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs, And drowns the turret bell, Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies Unheard, like my farewell! To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name, And Hate will trample me, Will load me with a coward's shame? A traitor's perjury.
False friends will launch their covert sneers; True friends will wish me dead; And I shall cause the bitterest tears That you have ever shed.
The dark deeds of my outlawed race Will then like virtues shine; And men will pardon their disgrace, Beside the guilt of mine.
For, who forgives the accursed crime Of dastard treachery? Rebellion, in its chosen time, May Freedom's champion be; Revenge may stain a righteous sword, It may be just to slay; But, traitor, traitor, from that word All true breasts shrink away! Oh, I would give my heart to death, To keep my honour fair; Yet, I'll not give my inward faith My honour's name to spare! Not even to keep your priceless love, Dare I, Beloved, deceive; This treason should the future prove, Then, only then, believe! I know the path I ought to go; I follow fearlessly, Inquiring not what deeper woe Stern duty stores for me.
So foes pursue, and cold allies Mistrust me, every one: Let me be false in others' eyes, If faithful in my own.


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 !


by Emily Bronte |

Faith and Despondency

 The winter wind is loud and wild,
Come close to me, my darling child;
Forsake thy books, and mateless play;
And, while the night is gathering grey,
We'll talk its pensive hours away;-- 

'Ierne, round our sheltered hall
November's gusts unheeded call;
Not one faint breath can enter here
Enough to wave my daughter's hair,
And I am glad to watch the blaze
Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays;
To feel her cheek so softly pressed,
In happy quiet on my breast.
'But, yet, even this tranquillity Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me; And, in the red fire's cheerful glow, I think of deep glens, blocked with snow; I dream of moor, and misty hill, Where evening closes dark and chill; For, lone, among the mountains cold, Lie those that I have loved of old.
And my heart aches, in hopeless pain Exhausted with repinings vain, That I shall greet them ne'er again!' 'Father, in early infancy, When you were far beyond the sea, Such thoughts were tyrants over me! I often sat, for hours together, Through the long nights of angry weather, Raised on my pillow, to descry The dim moon struggling in the sky; Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock, Of rock with wave, and wave with rock; So would I fearful vigil keep, And, all for listening, never sleep.
But this world's life has much to dread, Not so, my Father, with the dead.
'Oh! not for them, should we despair, The grave is drear, but they are not there; Their dust is mingled with the sod, Their happy souls are gone to God! You told me this, and yet you sigh, And murmur that your friends must die.
Ah! my dear father, tell me why? For, if your former words were true, How useless would such sorrow be; As wise, to mourn the seed which grew Unnoticed on its parent tree, Because it fell in fertile earth, And sprang up to a glorious birth-- Struck deep its root, and lifted high Its green boughs, in the breezy sky.
'But, I'll not fear, I will not weep For those whose bodies rest in sleep,-- I know there is a blessed shore, Opening its ports for me, and mine; And, gazing Time's wide waters o'er, I weary for that land divine, Where we were born, where you and I Shall meet our Dearest, when we die; From suffering and corruption free, Restored into the Deity.
' 'Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child! And wiser than thy sire; And worldly tempests, raging wild, Shall strengthen thy desire-- Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam, Through wind and ocean's roar, To reach, at last, the eternal home, The steadfast, changeless, shore!'


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.