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Best Famous Charlotte Bronte Poems

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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.


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.


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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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 !


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!


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.


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 !


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.


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


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.


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.


by Charlotte Bronte | |

Stanzas

 IF thou be in a lonely place,
If one hour's calm be thine,
As Evening bends her placid face
O'er this sweet day's decline;
If all the earth and all the heaven
Now look serene to thee,
As o'er them shuts the summer even,
One moment­think of me ! 

Pause, in the lane, returning home;
'Tis dusk, it will be still:
Pause near the elm, a sacred gloom
Its breezeless boughs will fill.
Look at that soft and golden light, High in the unclouded sky; Watch the last bird's belated flight, As it flits silent by.
Hark ! for a sound upon the wind, A step, a voice, a sigh; If all be still, then yield thy mind, Unchecked, to memory.
If thy love were like mine, how blest That twilight hour would seem, When, back from the regretted Past, Returned our early dream ! If thy love were like mine, how wild Thy longings, even to pain, For sunset soft, and moonlight mild, To bring that hour again ! But oft, when in thine arms I lay, I've seen thy dark eyes shine, And deeply felt, their changeful ray Spoke other love than mine.
My love is almost anguish now, It beats so strong and true; 'Twere rapture, could I deem that thou Such anguish ever knew.
I have been but thy transient flower, Thou wert my god divine; Till, checked by death's congealing power, This heart must throb for thine.
And well my dying hour were blest, If life's expiring breath Should pass, as thy lips gently prest My forehead, cold in death; And sound my sleep would be, and sweet, Beneath the churchyard tree, If sometimes in thy heart should beat One pulse, still true to me.


by Charlotte Bronte | |

Life

 I leave the office, take the stairs,
in time to mail a letter
before 3 in the afternoon--the last dispatch.
The red, white and blue air mail falls past the slot for foreign mail and hits bottom with a sound that tells me my letter is alone.
They will have to bring in a plane from a place of coastline and beaches, from a climate of fresh figs and apricot, to cradle my one letter.
Up in the air it will leave behind some of its ugly nuance, its unpleasant habit of humanity which wants to smear itself over others: the spot in which it wasn't clear, perhaps, how to take my words, which were suggestive, the paragraph in which the names of flowers, ostensibly to indicate travel, make a bed for lovers, the parts that contain spit and phlegm, the words only a wet tongue can manage, hissing sounds and letters of the alphabet which can only be formed by biting down on the bottom lip.
In the next-to-last paragraph, some hair came off in the comb.
Then clothes were gathered from everywhere in the room in one sentence, and the sun rose while a door closed with sincerity.
No doubt such sincerity will be judged, but first the investigation of the postmark.
Am I where I was expected? Did I have at hand the right denominations of stamps, or did I make a childish quilt of ones and sevens? Ah yes, they will have to cancel me twice.
Once to make my words worthless.
Once more to stop me from writing.


by Charlotte Bronte | |

Life

 As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain
Where native Otter sports his scanty stream,
Musing in torpid woe a Sister's pain,
The glorious prospect woke me from the dream.
At every step it widen'd to my sight - Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Steep, Following in quick succession of delight, - Till all - at once - did my eye ravish'd sweep! May this (I cried) my course through Life portray! New scenes of Wisdom may each step display, And Knowledge open as my days advance! Till what time Death shall pour the undarken'd ray, My eye shall dart thro' infinite expanse, And thought suspended lie in Rapture's blissful trance.