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Best Famous Anne Bronte Poems

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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!


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.


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.


More great poems below...

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?


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.


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.


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.


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!


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!


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?


by Anne Bronte | |

Night

 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.


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.


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.


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.


by Anne Bronte | |

Past Days

 'Tis strange to think, there was a time
When mirth was not an empty name,
When laughter really cheered the heart,
And frequent smiles unbidden came,
And tears of grief would only flow
In sympathy for others' woe; 
When speech expressed the inward thought,
And heart to kindred heart was bare,
And Summer days were far too short
For all the pleasures crowded there,
And silence, solitude, and rest,
Now welcome to the weary breast --

Were all unprized, uncourted then --
And all the joy one spirit showed,
The other deeply felt again;
And friendship like a river flowed,
Constant and strong its silent course,
For nought withstood its gentle force: 

When night, the holy time of peace,
Was dreaded as the parting hour;
When speech and mirth at once must cease,
And Silence must resume her power;
Though ever free from pains and woes,
She only brought us calm repose; 

And when the blessed dawn again
Brought daylight to the blushing skies,
We woke, and not reluctant then,
To joyless labour did we rise;
But full of hope, and glad and gay,
We welcomed the returning day.


by Anne Bronte | |

The Penitent

 I mourn with thee and yet rejoice
That thou shouldst sorrow so;
With Angel choirs I join my voice
To bless the sinner's woe.
Though friends and kindred turn away And laugh thy grief to scorn, I hear the great Redeemer say 'Blessed are ye that mourn'.
Hold on thy course nor deem it strange That earthly cords are riven.
Man may lament the wondrous change But 'There is joy in Heaven'!


by Anne Bronte | |

Self-Congratulation

 Ellen, you were thoughtless once
Of beauty or of grace,
Simple and homely in attire,
Careless of form and face;
Then whence this change? and wherefore now
So often smooth your hair?
And wherefore deck your youthful form 
With such unwearied care? 
Tell us -­ and cease to tire our ears
With that familiar strain -­
Why will you play those simple tunes
So often, o'er again?
'Indeed, dear friends, I can but say
That childhood's thoughts are gone;
Each year its own new feelings brings,
And years move swiftly on: 

'And for these little simple airs --
I love to play them o'er
So much -­ I dare not promise, now,
To play them never more.
' I answered -­ and it was enough; They turned them to depart; They could not read my secret thoughts, Nor see my throbbing heart.
I've noticed many a youthful form, Upon whose changeful face The inmost workings of the soul The gazer well might trace; The speaking eye, the changing lip, The ready blushing cheek, The smiling, or beclouded brow, Their different feelings speak.
But, thank God! you might gaze on mine For hours, and never know The secret changes of my soul From joy to keenest woe.
Last night, as we sat round the fire Conversing merrily, We heard, without, approaching steps Of one well known to me! There was no trembling in my voice, No blush upon my cheek, No lustrous sparkle in my eyes, Of hope, or joy, to speak; But, oh! my spirit burned within, My heart beat full and fast! He came not nigh -­ he went away -­ And then my joy was past.
And yet my comrades marked it not: My voice was still the same; They saw me smile, and o'er my face No signs of sadness came.
They little knew my hidden thoughts; And they will never know The aching anguish of my heart, The bitter burning woe!


by Anne Bronte | |

Song 2

 Come to the banquet -- triumph in your songs!
Strike up the chords -- and sing of Victory!
The oppressed have risen to redress their wrongs;
The Tyrants are o'erthrown; the Land is free!
The Land is free! Aye, shout it forth once more;
Is she not red with her oppressors' gore? 
We are her champions -- shall we not rejoice?
Are not the tyrants' broad domains our own?
Then wherefore triumph with a faltering voice;
And talk of freedom in a doubtful tone?
Have we not longed through life the reign to see
Of Justice, linked with Glorious Liberty?

Shout you that will, and you that can rejoice
To revel in the riches of your foes.
In praise of deadly vengeance lift you voice, Gloat o'er your tyrants' blood, you victims' woes.
I'd rather listen to the skylarks' songs, And think on Gondal's, and my Father's wrongs.
It may be pleasant, to recall the death Of those beneath whose sheltering roof you lie; But I would rather press the mountain heath, With naught to shield me from the starry sky, And dream of yet untasted victory -- A distant hope -- and feel that I am free! O happy life! To range the mountains wild, The waving woods -- or Ocean's heaving breast, With limbs unfettered, conscience undefiled, And choosing where to wander, where to rest! Hunted, oppressed, but ever strong to cope -- With toils, and perils -- ever full of hope! 'Our flower is budding' -- When that word was heard On desert shore, or breezy mountain's brow, Wherever said -- what glorious thoughts it stirred! 'Twas budding then -- Say has it blossomed now? Is this the end we struggled to obtain? O for the wandering Outlaw's life again!


by Anne Bronte | |

Farewell

 Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.
O, beautiful, and full of grace! If thou hadst never met mine eye, I had not dreamed a living face Could fancied charms so far outvie.
If I may ne'er behold again That form and face so dear to me, Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain Preserve, for aye, their memory.
That voice, the magic of whose tone Can wake an echo in my breast, Creating feelings that, alone, Can make my tranced spirit blest.
That laughing eye, whose sunny beam My memory would not cherish less; -- And oh, that smile! whose joyous gleam Nor mortal language can express.
Adieu, but let me cherish, still, The hope with which I cannot part.
Contempt may wound, and coldness chill, But still it lingers in my heart.
And who can tell but Heaven, at last, May answer all my thousand prayers, And bid the future pay the past With joy for anguish, smiles for tears?


by Anne Bronte | |

Song

 We know where deepest lies the snow,
And where the frost-winds keenest blow,
O'er every mountain's brow,
We long have known and learnt to bear
The wandering outlaw's toil and care,
But where we late were hunted, there
Our foes are hunted now.
We have their princely homes, and they To our wild haunts are chased away, Dark woods, and desert caves.
And we can range from hill to hill, And chase our vanquished victors still; Small respite will they find until They slumber in their graves.
But I would rather be the hare, That crouching in its sheltered lair Must start at every sound; That forced from cornfields waving wide Is driven to seek the bare hillside, Or in the tangled copse to hide, Than be the hunter's hound.


by Anne Bronte | |

Stanzas

 Oh, 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, oh, 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 fear not me­ Believe that Death alone can tear This faithful heart from thee.


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.


by Anne Bronte | |

Dreams

 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?


by Anne Bronte | |

Fluctuations

 What though the sun had left my sky;
To save me from despair
The blessed moon arose on high,
And shone serenely there.
I watched her, with a tearful gaze, Rise slowly o'er the hill, While through the dim horizon's haze Her light gleamed faint and chill.
I thought such wan and lifeless beams Could ne'er my heart repay, For the bright sun's most transient gleams That cheered me through the day: But as above that mist's control She rose, and brighter shone, I felt her light upon my soul; But now -- that light is gone! Thick vapours snatched her from my sight, And I was darkling left, All in the cold and gloomy night, Of light and hope bereft: Until, methought, a little star Shone forth with trembling ray, To cheer me with its light afar -- But that, too, passed away.
Anon, an earthly meteor blazed The gloomy darkness through; I smiled, yet trembled while I gazed -- But that soon vanished too! And darker, drearier fell the night Upon my spirit then; -- But what is that faint struggling light? Is it the Moon again? Kind Heaven! increase that silvery gleam, And bid these clouds depart, And let her soft celestial beam Restore my fainting heart!


by Anne Bronte | |

Fragment

 Yes I will take a cheerful tone
And feign to share their heartless glee,
But I would rather weep alone
Than laugh amid their revelry.