Best Famous Anne Bronte Poems

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Written by Anne Bronte | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Finished.
Jan.
28, 1849.
Written by Anne Bronte | Create an image from this poem

Memory

 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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Anne Bronte | Create an image from this poem

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?
Written by Anne Bronte | Create an image from this poem

Confidence

 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 | Create an image from this poem

Alexander And Zenobia

 Fair was the evening and brightly the sun
Was shining on desert and grove,
Sweet were the breezes and balmy the flowers
And cloudless the heavens above.
It was Arabia's distant land And peaceful was the hour; Two youthful figures lay reclined Deep in a shady bower.
One was a boy of just fourteen Bold beautiful and bright; Soft raven curls hung clustering round A brow of marble white.
The fair brow and ruddy cheek Spoke of less burning skies; Words cannot paint the look that beamed In his dark lustrous eyes.
The other was a slender girl, Blooming and young and fair.
The snowy neck was shaded with The long bright sunny hair.
And those deep eyes of watery blue, So sweetly sad they seemed.
And every feature in her face With pensive sorrow teemed.
The youth beheld her saddened air And smiling cheerfully He said, 'How pleasant is the land Of sunny Araby! 'Zenobia, I never saw A lovelier eve than this; I never felt my spirit raised With more unbroken bliss! 'So deep the shades, so calm the hour, So soft the breezes sigh, So sweetly Philomel begins Her heavenly melody.
'So pleasant are the scents that rise From flowers of loveliest hue, And more than all -- Zenobia, I am alone with you! Are we not happy here alone In such a healthy spot?' He looked to her with joyful smile But she returned it not.
'Why are you sorrowful?' he asked And heaved a bitter sigh, 'O tell me why those drops of woe Are gathering in your eye.
' 'Gladly would I rejoice,' she said, 'But grief weighs down my heart.
'Can I be happy when I know Tomorrow we must part? 'Yes, Alexander, I must see This happy land no more.
At break of day I must return To distant Gondal's shore.
'At morning we must bid farewell, And at the close of day You will be wandering alone And I shall be away.
'I shall be sorrowing for you On the wide weltering sea, And you will perhaps have wandered here To sit and think of me.
' 'And shall we part so soon?' he cried, 'Must we be torn away? Shall I be left to mourn alone? Will you no longer stay? 'And shall we never meet again, Hearts that have grown together? Must they at once be rent away And kept apart for ever?' 'Yes, Alexander, we must part, But we may meet again, For when I left my native land I wept in anguish then.
'Never shall I forget the day I left its rocky shore.
We thought that we had bid adieu To meet on earth no more.
'When we had parted how I wept To see the mountains blue Grow dimmer and more distant -- till They faded from my view.
'And you too wept -- we little thought After so long a time, To meet again so suddenly In such a distant clime.
'We met on Grecia's classic plain, We part in Araby.
And let us hope to meet again Beneath our Gondal's sky.
' 'Zenobia, do you remember A little lonely spring Among Exina's woody hills Where blackbirds used to sing, 'And when they ceased as daylight faded From the dusky sky The pensive nightingale began Her matchless melody? 'Sweet bluebells used to flourish there And tall trees waved on high, And through their ever sounding leaves The soft wind used to sigh.
'At morning we have often played Beside that lonely well; At evening we have lingered there Till dewy twilight fell.
'And when your fifteenth birthday comes, Remember me, my love, And think of what I said to you In this sweet spicy grove.
'At evening wander to that spring And sit and wait for me; And 'ere the sun has ceased to shine I will return to thee.
'Two years is a weary time But it will soon be fled.
And if you do not meet me -- know I am not false but dead.
' * * * Sweetly the summer day declines On forest, plain, and hill And in that spacious palace hall So lonely, wide and still.
Beside a window's open arch, In the calm evening air All lonely sits a stately girl, Graceful and young and fair.
The snowy lid and lashes long Conceal her downcast eye, She's reading and till now I have Passed unnoticed by.
But see she cannot fix her thoughts, They are wandering away; She looks towards a distant dell Where sunny waters play.
And yet her spirit is not with The scene she looks upon; She muses with a mournful smile On pleasures that are gone.
She looks upon the book again That chained her thoughts before, And for a moment strives in vain To fix her mind once more.
Then gently drops it on her knee And looks into the sky, While trembling drops are shining in Her dark celestial eye.
And thus alone and still she sits Musing on years gone by.
Till with a sad and sudden smile She rises up to go; And from the open window springs On to the grass below.
Why does she fly so swiftly now Adown the meadow green, And o'er the gently swelling hills And the vale that lies between? She passes under giant trees That lift their arms on high And slowly wave their mighty boughs In the clear evening sky, And now she threads a path that winds Through deeply shaded groves Where nought is heard but sighing gales And murmuring turtle doves.
She hastens on through sunless gloom To a vista opening wide; A marble fountain sparkles there With sweet flowers by its side.
At intervals in the velvet grass A few old elm trees rise, While a warm flood of yellow light Streams from the western skies.
Is this her resting place? Ah, no, She hastens onward still, The startled deer before her fly As she ascends the hill.
She does not rest till she has gained A lonely purling spring, Where zephyrs wave the verdant trees And birds in concert sing.
And there she stands and gazes round With bright and searching eye, Then sadly sighing turns away And looks upon the sky.
She sits down on the flowery turf Her head drooped on her hand; Her soft luxuriant golden curls Are by the breezes fanned.
A sweet sad smile plays on her lips; Her heart is far away, And thus she sits till twilight comes To take the place of day.
But when she looks towards the west And sees the sun is gone And hears that every bird but one To its nightly rest is flown, And sees that over nature's face A sombre veil is cast With mournful voice and tearful eye She says, 'The time is past! 'He will not come! I might have known It was a foolish hope; But it was so sweet to cherish I could not yield it up.
'It may be foolish thus to weep But I cannot check my tears To see in one short hour destroyed The darling hope of years.
'He is not false, but he was young And time rolls fast away.
Has he forgotten the vow he made To meet me here today? 'No.
If he lives he loves me still And still remembers me.
If he is dead -- my joys are sunk In utter misery.
'We parted in the spicy groves Beneath Arabia's sky.
How could I hope to meet him now Where Gondal's breezes sigh? 'He was a shining meteor light That faded from the skies, But I mistook him for a star That only set to rise.
'And with a firm yet trembling hand I've clung to this false hope; I dared not surely trust in it Yet would not yield it up.
'And day and night I've thought of him And loved him constantly, And prayed that Heaven would prosper him Wherever he might be.
'He will not come; he's wandering now On some far distant shore, Or else he sleeps the sleep of death And cannot see me more! 'O, Alexander, is it thus? Did we but meet to part? Long as I live thy name will be Engraven on my heart.
'I shall not cease to think of thee While life and thought remain, For well I know that I can never See thy like again!' She ceases now and dries her tears But still she lingers there In silent thought till night is come And silver stars appear.
But lo! a tall and stately youth Ascends the grassy slope; His bright dark eyes are glancing round, His heart beats high with hope.
He has journyed on unweariedly From dawn of day till now, The warm blood kindles in his cheek, The sweat is on his brow.
But he has gained the green hill top Where lies that lonely spring, And lo! he pauses when he hears Its gentle murmuring.
He dares not enter through the trees That veil it from his eye; He listens for some other sound In deep anxiety.
But vainly -- all is calm and still; Are his bright day dreams o'er? Has he thus hoped and longed in vain, And must they meet no more? One moment more of sad suspense And those dark trees are past; The lonely well bursts on his sight And they are met at last!
Written by Anne Bronte | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Retirement

 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!
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