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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.

Poem by Anne Bronte
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