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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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Written 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!

Written 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.

Written 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.

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Written 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?

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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!

Written 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!

Written 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?

Written by Anne Bronte | |


 I love the silent hour of night,
For blissful dreams may then arise,
Revealing to my charmed sight
What may not bless my waking eyes! 
And then a voice may meet my ear
That death has silenced long ago;
And hope and rapture may appear
Instead of solitude and woe.
Cold in the grave for years has lain The form it was my bliss to see, And only dreams can bring again The darling of my heart to me.

Written by Anne Bronte | |

The North Wind

 That wind is from the North, I know it well;
No other breeze could have so wild a swell.
Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell, The faintly dies, And softly sighs, And moans and murmurs mournfully.
I know its language; thus is speaks to me -- 'I have passed over thy own mountains dear, Thy northern mountains -- and they still are free, Still lonely, wild, majestic, bleak and drear, And stern and lovely, as they used to be When thou, a young enthusiast, As wild and free as they, O'er rocks and glens and snowy heights Didst often love to stray.
I've blown the wild untrodden snows In whirling eddies from their brows, And I have howled in caverns wild Where thou, a joyous mountain child, Didst dearly love to be.
The sweet world is not changed, but thou Art pining in a dungeon now, Where thou must ever be; No voice but mine can reach thine ear, And Heaven has kindly sent me here, To mourn and sigh with thee, And tell thee of the cherished land Of thy nativity.
' Blow on, wild wind, thy solemn voice, However sad and drear, Is nothing to the gloomy silence I have had to bear.
Hot tears are streaming from my eyes, But these are better far Than that dull gnawing tearless [time] The stupor of despair.
Confined and hopeless as I am, O speak of liberty, O tell me of my mountain home, And I will welcome thee.

Written by Anne Bronte | |

Oh They have Robbed Me of The Hope

 Oh, they have robbed me of the hope
My spirit held so dear;
They will not let me hear that voice
My soul delights to hear.
They will not let me see that face I so delight to see; And they have taken all thy smiles, And all thy love from me.
Well, let them seize on all they can: -- One treasure still is mine, -- A heart that loves to think on thee, And feels the worth of thine.

Written by Anne Bronte | |

Parting Address From Z.Z. To A.E.

 O weep not, love! each tear that springs
In those dear eyes of thine,
To me a keener suffering brings
Than if they flowed from mine.
And do not droop! however drear The fate awaiting thee.
For my sake, combat pain and care, And cherish life for me! I do not fear thy love will fail, Thy faith is true I know; But O! my love! thy strength is frail For such a life of woe.
Were't not for this, I well could trace (Though banished long from thee) Life's rugged path, and boldly face The storms that threaten me.
Fear not for me -­ I've steeled my mind Sorrow and strife to greet, Joy with my love I leave behind, Care with my friends I meet.
A mother's sad reproachful eye, A father's scowling brow -­ But he may frown, and she may sigh; I will not break my vow! I love my mother, I revere My sire, but doubt not me.
Believe that Death alone can tear This faithful heart from thee.

Written by Anne Bronte | |

The Parting


The chestnut steed stood by the gate
His noble master's will to wait,
The woody park so green and bright
Was glowing in the morning light,
The young leaves of the aspen trees
Were dancing in the morning breeze.
The palace door was open wide, Its lord was standing there, And his sweet lady by his side With soft dark eyes and raven hair.
He smiling took her wary hand And said, 'No longer here I stand; My charger shakes his flowing mane And calls me with impatient neigh.
Adieu then till we meet again, Sweet love, I must no longer stay.
' 2 'You must not go so soon,' she said, 'I will not say farewell.
The sun has not dispelled the shade In yonder dewy dell; Dark shadows of gigantic length Are sleeping on the lawn; And scarcely have the birds begun To hail the summer morn; Then stay with me a little while,' She said with soft and sunny smile.
3 He smiled again and did not speak, But lightly kissed her rosy cheek, And fondly clasped her in his arms, Then vaulted on his steed.
And down the park's smooth winding road He urged its flying speed.
Still by the door his lady stood And watched his rapid flight, Until he came to a distant wood That hid him from her sight.
But ere he vanished from her view He waved to her a last adieu, Then onward hastily he steered And in the forest disappeared.
4 The lady smiled a pensive smile And heaved a gently sigh, But her cheek was all unblanched the while And tearless was her eye.
'A thousand lovely flowers,' she said, 'Are smiling on the plain.
And ere one half of them are dead, My lord will come again.
The leaves are waving fresh and green On every stately tree, And long before they die away He will return to me!' -- Alas! Fair lady, say not so; Thou canst not tell the weight of woe That lies in store for thee.
5 Those flowers will fade, those leaves will fall, Winter will darken yonder hall; Sweet spring will smile o'er hill and plain And trees and flowers will bloom again, And years will still keep rolling on, But thy beloved lord is gone.
His absence thou shalt deeply mourn, And never smile on his return.