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Best Famous Emily Bronte Poems

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Written by Emily Bronte | |

The Philosopher

 "Enough of thought, philosopher!
Too long hast thou been dreaming
Unlightened, in this chamber drear,
While summer's sun is beaming!
Space - sweeping soul, what sad refrain
Concludes thy musings once again? 

"Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
Without identity,
And never care how rain may steep,
Or snow may cover me!
No promised heaven, these wild desires,
Could all, or half fulfil;
No threathened hell, with quenchless fires,
Subdue this quenchless will!" 

"So said I, and still say the same;
Still, to my death, will say -
Three gods, within this little frame,
Are warring night and day;
Heaven could not hold them all, and yet 
They all are held in me;
And must be mine till I forget
My present entity!
Oh, for the time, when in my breast
Their struggles will be o'er!
Oh, for the day, when I shall rest,
And never suffer more!" 

"I saw a spirit, standing, man,
Where thou dost stand - an hour ago, 
And round his feet three rivers ran,
Of equal depth, and equal flow -
"A golden stream - and one like blood;
And one like sapphire, seemed to be;
But, where they joined their triple flood
It tumbled in an inky sea.
The spirit sent his dazzling gaze Down through that ocean's gloomy night Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze, The glad deep sparkled wide and bright - White as the sun, far, far more fair Than its divided sources were!" "And even for that spirit, seer, I've watched and sought my life - time long; Sought him in heaven, hell, earth and air - An endless search, and always wrong! Had I but seen his glorious eye Once light the clouds that wilder me, I ne'er had raised this coward cry To cease to think and cease to be; I ne'er had called oblivion blest, Nor, stretching eager hands to death, Implored to change for senseless rest This sentient soul, this living breath - Oh, let me die - that power and will Their cruel strife may close; And conquered good, and conquering ill Be lost in one repose!"


Written 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.


Written 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!'


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Written 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 !


Written 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.


Written 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!"


Written 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


Written 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


Written 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 -


Written 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.


Written by Emily Bronte | |

That Wind I Used to Hear it Swelling

 That wind I used to hear it swelling
With joy divinely deep
You might have seen my hot tears welling
But rapture made me weep 

I used to love on winter nights
To lie and dream alone
Of all the hopes and real delights
My early years had known 

And oh above the rest of those
That coming time should [bear]
Like heaven's own glorious stars they rose
Still beaming bright and fair


Written by Emily Bronte | |

A little while a little while

 A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.
Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart, What thought, what scene invites thee now? What spot, or near or far, Has rest for thee, my weary brow? There is a spot, mid barren hills, Where winter howls, and driving rain; But if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight's dome; But what on earth is half so dear, So longed for, as the hearth of home? The mute bird sitting on the stone, The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, I love them, how I love them all! Still, as I mused, the naked room, The alien firelight died away, And from the midst of cheerless gloom I passed to bright unclouded day.
A little and a lone green lane That opened on a common wide; A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain Of mountains circling every side; A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; And, deepening still the dream-like charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
That was the scene, I knew it well; I knew the turfy pathway's sweep That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.
Even as I stood with raptured eye, Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear, My hour of rest had fleeted by, And back came labour, bondage, care.


Written by Emily Bronte | |

Come hither child

 Come hither, child--who gifted thee 
With power to touch that string so well? 
How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me, 
Thoughts that I would--but cannot quell?

Nay, chide not, lady; long ago 
I heard those notes in Ula's hall, 
And had I known they'd waken woe 
I'd weep their music to recall.
But thus it was: one festal night When I was hardly six years old I stole away from crowds and light And sought a chamber dark and cold.
I had no one to love me there, I knew no comrade and no friend; And so I went to sorrow where Heaven, only heaven saw me bend.
Loud blew the wind; 'twas sad to stay From all that splendour barred away.
I imaged in the lonely room A thousand forms of fearful gloom.
And with my wet eyes raised on high I prayed to God that I might die.
Suddenly in that silence drear A sound of music reached my ear, And then a note, I hear it yet, So full of soul, so deeply sweet, I thought that Gabriel's self had come To take me to thy father's home.
Three times it rose, that seraph strain, Then died, nor breathed again; But still the words and still the tone Dwell round my heart when all alone.


Written by Emily Bronte | |

My Comforter

 Well hast thou spoken, and yet, not taught
A feeling strange or new;
Thou hast but roused a latent thought,
A cloud-closed beam of sunshine, brought 
To gleam in open view.
Deep down, concealed within my soul, That light lies hid from men; Yet, glows unquenched - though shadows roll, Its gentle ray cannot control, About the sullen den.
Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long? Around me, wretches uttering praise, Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue; - A brotherhood of misery, Their smiles as sad as sighs; Whose madness daily maddened me, Distorting into agony The bliss before my eyes! So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, And in the glare of Hell; My spirit drank a mingled tone, Of seraph's song, and demon's moan; What my soul bore, my soul alone Within itself may tell! Like a soft air, above a sea, Tossed by the tempest's stir; A thaw-wind, melting quietly The snow-drift, on some wintry lea; No: what sweet thing resembles thee, My thoughtful Comforter? And yet a little longer speak, Calm this resentful mood; And while the savage heart grows meek, For other token do not seek, But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude!


Written by Emily Bronte | |

Speak God Of Visions

 O, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
O, 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 presevered 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 of tears Be deadening me to earthly cares; And yet, a king, though Prudence well Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And I am 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!