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Best Famous Anne Bronte Poems

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Written by Anne Bronte |

Power of Love

 Love, indeed thy strength is mighty
Thus, alone, such strife to bear --
Three 'gainst one, and never ceasing --
Death, and Madness, and Despair! 
'Tis not my own strength has saved me;
Health, and hope, and fortitude,
But for love, had long since failed me;
Heart and soul had sunk subdued.
Often, in my wild impatience, I have lost my trust in Heaven, And my soul has tossed and struggled, Like a vessel tempest-driven; But the voice of my beloved In my ear has seemed to say -- 'O, be patient if thou lov'st me!' And the storm has passed away.
When outworn with weary thinking, Sight and thought were waxing dim, And my mind began to wander, And my brain began to swim, Then those hands outstretched to save me Seemed to call me back again -- Those dark eyes did so implore me To resume my reason's reign, That I could not but remember How her hopes were fixed on me, And, with one determined effort, Rose, and shook my spirit free.
When hope leaves my weary spirit -- All the power to hold it gone -- That loved voice so loudly prays me, 'For my sake, keep hoping on,' That, at once my strength renewing, Though Despair had crushed me down, I can burst his bonds asunder, And defy his deadliest frown.
When, from nights of restless tossing, Days of gloom and pining care, Pain and weakness, still increasing, Seem to whisper 'Death is near,' And I almost bid him welcome, Knowing he would bring release, Weary of this restless struggle -- Longing to repose in peace, Then a glance of fond reproval Bids such selfish longings flee And a voice of matchless music Murmurs 'Cherish life for me!' Roused to newborn strength and courage, Pain and grief, I cast away, Health and life, I keenly follow, Mighty Death is held at bay.
Yes, my love, I will be patient! Firm and bold my heart shall be: Fear not -- though this life is dreary, I can bear it well for thee.
Let our foes still rain upon me Cruel wrongs and taunting scorn; 'Tis for thee their hate pursues me, And for thee, it shall be borne!

Written by Anne Bronte |

Last Lines

 Jan 7th

A dreadful darkness closes in
On my bewildered mind;
O let me suffer and not sin,
Be tortured yet resigned.
Through all this world of whelming mist Still let me look to Thee, And give me courage to resist The Tempter till he flee.
Weary I am -- O give me strength And leave me not to faint; Say Thou wilt comfort me at length And pity my complaint.
I've begged to serve Thee heart and soul, To sacrifice to Thee No niggard portion, but the whole Of my identity.
I hoped amid the brave and strong My portioned task might lie, To toil amid the labouring throng With purpose pure and high.
But Thou hast fixed another part, And Thou hast fixed it well; I said so with my breaking heart When first the anguish fell.
For Thou hast taken my delight And hope of life away, And bid me watch the painful night And wait the weary day.
The hope and the delight were Thine; I bless Thee for their loan; I gave Thee while I deemed them mine Too little thanks, I own.
Shall I with joy Thy blessings share And not endure their loss? Or hope the martyr's crown to wear And cast away the cross? These weary hours will not be lost, These days of passive misery, These nights of darkness anguish tost If I can fix my heart on Thee.
Weak and weary though I lie, Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain, Still I may lift to Heaven mine eyes And strive and labour not in vain, That inward strife against the sins That ever wait on suffering; To watch and strike where first begins Each ill that would corruption bring, That secret labour to sustain With humble patience every blow, To gather fortitude from pain And hope and holiness from woe.
Thus let me serve Thee from my heart Whatever be my written fate, Whether thus early to depart Or yet awhile to wait.
If Thou shouldst bring me back to life More humbled I should be; More wise, more strengthened for the strife, More apt to lean on Thee.
Should Death be standing at the gate Thus should I keep my vow; But, Lord, whate'er my future fate So let me serve Thee now.
28, 1849.

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.

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Written by Anne Bronte |

A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep

 A prisoner in a dungeon deep
Sat musing silently;
His head was rested on his hand,
His elbow on his knee.
Turned he his thoughts to future times Or are they backward cast? For freedom is he pining now Or mourning for the past? No, he has lived so long enthralled Alone in dungeon gloom That he has lost regret and hope, Has ceased to mourn his doom.
He pines not for the light of day Nor sighs for freedom now; Such weary thoughts have ceased at length To rack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts He sits unmoving there; That posture and that look proclaim The stupor of despair.
Yet not for ever did that mood Of sullen calm prevail; There was a something in his eye That told another tale.
It did not speak of reason gone, It was not madness quite; It was a fitful flickering fire, A strange uncertain light.
And sooth to say, these latter years Strange fancies now and then Had filled his cell with scenes of life And forms of living men.
A mind that cannot cease to think Why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain And madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes As feverish dreams display: What if those fancies still increase And reason quite decay? But hark, what sounds have struck his ear; Voices of men they seem; And two have entered now his cell; Can this too be a dream? 'Orlando, hear our joyful news: Revenge and liberty! Your foes are dead, and we are come At last to set you free.
' So spoke the elder of the two, And in the captive's eyes He looked for gleaming ecstasy But only found surprise.
'My foes are dead! It must be then That all mankind are gone.
For they were all my deadly foes And friends I had not one.

Written by Anne Bronte |


 Brightly the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
Allured the gazer's eye.
But what were all these charms to me, When one sweet breath of memory Came gently wafting by? I closed my eyes against the day, And called my willing soul away, From earth, and air, and sky; That I might simply fancy there One little flower -- a primrose fair, Just opening into sight; As in the days of infancy, An opening primrose seemed to me A source of strange delight.
Sweet Memory! ever smile on me; Nature's chief beauties spring from thee, Oh, still thy tribute bring! Still make the golden crocus shine Among the flowers the most divine, The glory of the spring.
Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell; And hover round the slight blue bell, My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still, The buttercup's bright goblet fill With all thy former power.
For ever hang thy dreamy spell Round mountain star and heather bell, And do not pass away From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow, And whisper when the wild winds blow, Or rippling waters play.
Is childhood, then, so all divine? Or Memory, is the glory thine, That haloes thus the past? Not all divine; its pangs of grief, (Although, perchance, their stay be brief,) Are bitter while they last.
Nor is the glory all thine own, For on our earliest joys alone That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine Can make our later pleasures shine, Though long ago they passed.

Written by Anne Bronte |


 While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye
With scenes and pleasures of its own.
Then I may cherish at my breast An infant's form beloved and fair, May smile and soothe it into rest With all a Mother's fondest care.
How sweet to feel its helpless form Depending thus on me alone! And while I hold it safe and warm What bliss to think it is my own! And glances then may meet my eyes That daylight never showed to me; What raptures in my bosom rise, Those earnest looks of love to see, To feel my hand so kindly prest, To know myself beloved at last, To think my heart has found a rest, My life of solitude is past! But then to wake and find it flown, The dream of happiness destroyed, To find myself unloved, alone, What tongue can speak the dreary void? A heart whence warm affections flow, Creator, thou hast given to me, And am I only thus to know How sweet the joys of love would be?

Written by Anne Bronte |


 Oppressed with sin and woe,
A burdened heart I bear,
Opposed by many a mighty foe:
But I will not despair.
With this polluted heart I dare to come to Thee, Holy and mighty as Thou art; For Thou wilt pardon me.
I feel that I am weak, And prone to every sin: But Thou who giv'st to those who seek, Wilt give me strength within.
Far as this earth may be From yonder starry skies; Remoter still am I from Thee: Yet Thou wilt not despise.
I need not fear my foes, I need not yield to care, I need not sink beneath my woes: For Thou wilt answer prayer.
In my Redeemer's name, I give myself to Thee; And all unworthy as I am My God will cherish me.
O make me wholly Thine! Thy love to me impart, And let Thy holy spirit shine For ever on my heart!

Written by Anne Bronte |

An Orphans Lament

 She's gone -- and twice the summer's sun
Has gilt Regina's towers,
And melted wild Angora's snows,
And warmed Exina's bowers.
The flowerets twice on hill and dale Have bloomed and died away, And twice the rustling forest leaves Have fallen to decay, And thrice stern winter's icy hand Has checked the river's flow, And three times o'er the mountains thrown His spotless robe of snow.
Two summers springs and autumns sad Three winters cold and grey -- And is it then so long ago That wild November day! They say such tears as children weep Will soon be dried away, That childish grief however strong Is only for a day, And parted friends how dear soe'er Will soon forgotten be; It may be so with other hearts, It is not thus with me.
My mother, thou wilt weep no more For thou art gone above, But can I ever cease to mourn Thy good and fervent love? While that was mine the world to me Was sunshine bright and fair; No feeling rose within my heart But thou couldst read it there.
And thou couldst feel for all my joys And all my childish cares And never weary of my play Or scorn my foolish fears.
Beneath thy sweet maternal smile All pain and sorrow fled, And even the very tears were sweet Upon thy bosom shed.
Thy loss can never be repaired; I shall not know again While life remains, the peaceful joy That filled my spirit then.
Where shall I find a heart like thine While life remains to me, And where shall I bestow the love I ever bore for thee?

Written by Anne Bronte |

A Voice From The Dungeon

 I'm buried now; I've done with life;
I've done with hate, revenge and strife;
I've done with joy, and hope and love
And all the bustling world above.
Long have I dwelt forgotten here In pining woe and dull despair; This place of solitude and gloom Must be my dungeon and my tomb.
No hope, no pleasure can I find: I am grown weary of my mind; Often in balmy sleep I try To gain a rest from misery, And in one hour of calm repose To find a respite from my woes, But dreamless sleep is not for me And I am still in misery.
I dream of liberty, 'tis true, But then I dream of sorrow too, Of blood and guilt and horrid woes, Of tortured friends and happy foes; I dream about the world, but then I dream of fiends instead of men; Each smiling hope so quickly fades And such a lurid gloom pervades That world -- that when I wake and see Those dreary phantoms fade and flee, Even in my dungeon I can smile, And taste of joy a little while.
And yet it is not always so; I dreamt a little while ago That all was as it used to be: A fresh free wind passed over me; It was a pleasant summer's day, The sun shone forth with cheering ray, Methought a little lovely child Looked up into my face and smiled.
My heart was full, I wept for joy, It was my own, my darling boy; I clasped him to my breast and he Kissed me and laughed in childish glee.
Just them I heard in whisper sweet A well known voice my name repeat.
His father stood before my eyes; I gazed at him in mute surprise, I thought he smiled and spoke to me, But still in silent ecstasy I gazed at him; I could not speak; I uttered one long piercing shriek.
Alas! Alas! That cursed scream Aroused me from my heavenly dream; I looked around in wild despair, I called them, but they were not there; The father and the child are gone, And I must live and die alone.

Written by Anne Bronte |

The Doubters Prayer

 Eternal Power, of earth and air!
Unseen, yet seen in all around,
Remote, but dwelling everywhere,
Though silent, heard in every sound.
If e'er thine ear in mercy bent, When wretched mortals cried to Thee, And if, indeed, Thy Son was sent, To save lost sinners such as me: Then hear me now, while, kneeling here, I lift to thee my heart and eye, And all my soul ascends in prayer, Oh, give me -­ give me Faith! I cry.
Without some glimmering in my heart, I could not raise this fervent prayer; But, oh! a stronger light impart, And in Thy mercy fix it there.
While Faith is with me, I am blest; It turns my darkest night to day; But while I clasp it to my breast, I often feel it slide away.
Then, cold and dark, my spirit sinks, To see my light of life depart; And every fiend of Hell, methinks, Enjoys the anguish of my heart.
What shall I do, if all my love, My hopes, my toil, are cast away, And if there be no God above, To hear and bless me when I pray? If this be vain delusion all, If death be an eternal sleep, And none can hear my secret call, Or see the silent tears I weep! Oh, help me, God! For thou alone Canst my distracted soul relieve; Forsake it not: it is thine own, Though weak, yet longing to believe.
Oh, drive these cruel doubts away; And make me know, that Thou art God! A faith, that shines by night and day, Will lighten every earthly load.
If I believe that Jesus died, And, waking, rose to reign above; Then surely Sorrow, Sin, and Pride, Must yield to Peace, and Hope, and Love.
And all the blessed words He said Will strength and holy joy impart: A shield of safety o'er my head, A spring of comfort in my heart.

Written by Anne Bronte |

Severed and Gone

 Severed and gone, so many years!
And art thou still so dear to me,
That throbbing heart and burning tears
Can witness how I cling to thee? 
I know that in the narrow tomb
The form I loved was buried deep,
And left, in silence and in gloom,
To slumber out its dreamless sleep.
I know the corner where it lies, Is but a dreary place of rest: The charnel moisture never dries From the dark flagstones o'er its breast, For there the sunbeams never shine, Nor ever breathes the freshening air, ­- But not for this do I repine; For my beloved is not there.
O, no! I do not think of thee As festering there in slow decay: ­- 'Tis this sole thought oppresses me, That thou art gone so far away.
For ever gone; for I, by night, Have prayed, within my silent room, That Heaven would grant a burst of light Its cheerless darkness to illume; And give thee to my longing eyes, A moment, as thou shinest now, Fresh from thy mansion in the skies, With all its glories on thy brow.
Wild was the wish, intense the gaze I fixed upon the murky air, Expecting, half, a kindling blaze Would strike my raptured vision there, -- A shape these human nerves would thrill, A majesty that might appal, Did not thy earthly likeness, still, Gleam softly, gladly, through it all.
False hope! vain prayer! it might not be That thou shouldst visit earth again.
I called on Heaven --­ I called on thee, And watched, and waited --­ all in vain.
Had I one shining tress of thine, How it would bless these longing eyes! Or if thy pictured form were mine, What gold should rob me of the prize? A few cold words on yonder stone, A corpse as cold as they can be -­ Vain words, and mouldering dust, alone -­ Can this be all that's left of thee? O, no! thy spirit lingers still Where'er thy sunny smile was seen: There's less of darkness, less of chill On earth, than if thou hadst not been.
Thou breathest in my bosom yet, And dwellest in my beating heart; And, while I cannot quite forget, Thou, darling, canst not quite depart.
Though, freed from sin, and grief, and pain Thou drinkest now the bliss of Heaven, Thou didst not visit earth in vain; And from us, yet, thou art not riven.
Life seems more sweet that thou didst live, And men more true that thou wert one: Nothing is lost that thou didst give, Nothing destroyed that thou hast done.
Earth hath received thine earthly part; Thine heavenly flame has heavenward flown; But both still linger in my heart, Still live, and not in mine alone.

Written by Anne Bronte |

A Hymn

 Eternal power of earth and air,
Unseen, yet seen in all around,
Remote, but dwelling everywhere,
Though silent, heard in every sound.
If e'er thine ear in mercy bent When wretched mortals cried to thee, And if indeed thy Son was sent To save lost sinners such as me.
Then hear me now, while kneeling here; I lift to thee my heart and eye And all my soul ascends in prayer; O give me -­ give me Faith I cry.
Without some glimmering in my heart, I could not raise this fervent prayer; But O a stronger light impart, And in thy mercy fix it there! While Faith is with me I am blest; It turns my darkest night to day; But while I clasp it to my breast I often feel it slide away.
Then cold and dark my spirit sinks, To see my light of life depart, And every fiend of Hell methinks Enjoys the anguish of my heart.
What shall I do if all my love, My hopes, my toil, are cast away, And if there be no God above To hear and bless me when I pray? If this be vain delusion all, If death be an eternal sleep, And none can hear my secret call, Or see the silent tears I weep.
O help me God! for thou alone Canst my distracted soul relieve; Forsake it not -- it is thine own, Though weak yet longing to believe.
O drive these cruel doubts away And make me know that thou art God; A Faith that shines by night and day Will lighten every earthly load.
If I believe that Jesus died And waking rose to reign above, Then surely Sorrow, Sin and Pride Must yield to peace and hope and love.
And all the blessed words he said Will strength and holy joy impart, A shield of safety o'er my head, A spring of comfort in my heart.

Written by Anne Bronte |


 O, let me be alone a while,
No human form is nigh.
And may I sing and muse aloud, No mortal ear is by.
Away! ye dreams of earthly bliss, Ye earthly cares begone: Depart! ye restless wandering thoughts, And let me be alone! One hour, my spirit, stretch thy wings, And quit this joyless sod, Bask in the sunshine of the sky, And be alone with God!

Written by Anne Bronte |

In Memory of a Happy Day in February

 Blessed be Thou for all the joy
My soul has felt today!
O let its memory stay with me
And never pass away! 
I was alone, for those I loved
Were far away from me,
The sun shone on the withered grass,
The wind blew fresh and free.
Was it the smile of early spring That made my bosom glow? 'Twas sweet, but neither sun nor wind Could raise my spirit so.
Was it some feeling of delight, All vague and undefined? No, 'twas a rapture deep and strong, Expanding in the mind! Was it a sanguine view of life And all its transient bliss­- A hope of bright prosperity? O no, it was not this! It was a glimpse of truth divine Unto my spirit given Illumined by a ray of light That shone direct from heaven! I felt there was a God on high By whom all things were made.
I saw His wisdom and his power In all his works displayed.
But most throughout the moral world I saw his glory shine; I saw His wisdom infinite, His mercy all divine.
Deep secrets of his providence In darkness long concealed Were brought to my delighted eyes And graciously revealed.
But while I wondered and adored His wisdom so divine, I did not tremble at his power, I felt that God was mine.
I knew that my Redeemer lived, I did not fear to die; Full sure that I should rise again To immortality.
I longed to view that bliss divine Which eye hath never seen, To see the glories of his face Without the veil between.

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.