Poetries by Charlotte Brontė

Writer, born sunday april 21, 1816 in Thornton, Bradford (United Kingdom), died saturday march 31, 1855 in Haworth, West Yorkshire (United Kingdom)
You can find this author also in Quotes & Aphorisms and in Novels.

The Wood

But two miles more, and then we rest!
Well, there is still an hour of day,
And long the brightness of the West
Will light us on our devious way;
Sit then, awhile, here in this wood—
So total is the solitude,
We safely may delay.
Charlotte Brontė
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    Gilbert

    I. The garden.

    Above the city hung the moon,
    Right o'er a plot of ground
    Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced
    With lofty walls around:
    'Twas Gilbert's garden­there, to-night
    Awhile he walked alone;
    And, tired with sedentary toil,
    Mused where the moonlight shone.

    This garden, in a city-heart,
    Lay still as houseless wild,
    Though many-windowed mansion fronts
    Were round it closely piled;
    But thick their walls, and those within
    Lived lives by noise unstirred;
    Like wafting of an angel's wing,
    Time's flight by them was heard.

    Some soft piano-notes alone
    Were sweet as faintly given,
    Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth
    With song, that winter-even.
    The city's many-mingled sounds
    Rose like the hum of ocean;
    They rather lulled the heart than roused
    Its pulse to faster motion.

    Gilbert has paced the single walk
    An hour, yet is not weary;
    And, though it be a winter night,
    He feels nor cold nor dreary.
    The prime of life is in his veins,
    And sends his blood fast flowing,
    And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts
    Now in his bosom glowing.

    Those thoughts recur to early love,
    Or what he love would name,
    Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds
    Might other title claim.
    Such theme not oft his mind absorbs,
    He to the world clings fast,
    And too much for the present lives,
    To linger o'er the past.

    But now the evening's deep repose
    Has glided to his soul;
    That moonlight falls on Memory,
    And shows her fading scroll.
    One name appears in every line
    The gentle rays shine o'er,
    And still he smiles and still repeats
    That one name­Elinor.

    There is no sorrow in his smile,
    No kindness in his tone;
    The triumph of a selfish heart
    Speaks coldly there alone;
    He says: ' She loved me more than life;
    And truly it was sweet
    To see so fair a woman kneel,
    In bondage, at my feet.

    There was a sort of quiet bliss
    To be so deeply loved,
    To gaze on trembling eagerness
    And sit myself unmoved.
    And when it pleased my pride to grant,
    At last some rare caress,
    To feel the fever of that hand
    My fingers deigned to press.

    'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide
    What every glance revealed;
    Endowed, the while, with despot-might
    Her destiny to wield.
    I knew myself no perfect man,
    Nor, as she deemed, divine;
    I knew that I was glorious­but
    By her reflected shine;

    Her youth, her native energy,
    Her powers new-born and fresh,
    'Twas these with Godhead sanctified
    My sensual frame of flesh.
    Yet, like a God did I descend
    At last, to meet her love;
    And, like a God, I then withdrew
    To my own heaven above.

    And never more could she invoke
    My presence to her sphere;
    No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers
    Could win my awful ear.
    I knew her blinded constancy
    Would ne'er my deeds betray,
    And, calm in conscience, whole in heart,
    I went my tranquil way.

    Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,
    The fond and flattering pain
    Of passion's anguish to create,
    In her young breast again.
    Bright was the lustre of her eyes,
    When they caught fire from mine;
    If I had power­this very hour,
    Again I 'd light their shine.

    But where she is, or how she lives,
    I have no clue to know;
    I "ve heard she long my absence pined,
    And left her home in woe.
    But busied, then, in gathering gold,
    As I am busied now,
    I could not turn from such pursuit,
    To weep a broken vow.

    Nor could I give to fatal risk
    The fame I ever prized;
    Even now, I fear, that precious fame
    Is too much compromised."
    An inward trouble dims his eye,
    Some riddle he would solve;
    Some method to unloose a knot,
    His anxious thoughts revolve.

    He, pensive, leans against a tree,
    a leafy evergreen,
    The boughs, the moonlight, intercept,
    And hide him like a screen;
    He starts­the tree shakes with his tremor,
    Yet nothing near him pass'd,
    He hurries up the garden alley,
    In strangely sudden haste.

    With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet,
    Steps o'er the threshold stone;
    The heavy door slips from his fingers,
    It shuts, and he is gone.
    What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul?
    A nervous thought, no more;
    'Twill sink like stone in placid pool,
    And calm close smoothly o'er.
    Charlotte Brontė
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      Apostasy

      This last denial of my faith,
      Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
      And, though upon my bed of death,
      I call not back a word.
      Point not to thy Madonna, Priest, ­
      Thy sightless saint of stone;
      She cannot, from this burning breast,
      Wring one repentant moan.

      Thou say'st, that when a sinless child,
      I duly bent the knee,
      And prayed to what in marble smiled
      Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.
      I did. But listen! Children spring
      Full soon to riper youth;
      And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring,
      I sold my early truth.

      'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine,
      Bent o'er me, when I said,
      ' That land and God and Faith are mine,
      For which thy fathers bled. '
      I see thee not, my eyes are dim;
      But, well I hear thee say,
      ' o daughter, cease to think of him
      Who led thy soul astray.

      Between you lies both space and time;
      Let leagues and years prevail
      To turn thee from the path of crime,
      Back to the Church's pale. '
      And, did I need that thou shouldst tell
      What mighty barriers rise
      To part me from that dungeon-cell,
      Where my loved Walter lies?

      And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt
      My dying hour at last,
      By bidding this worn spirit pant
      No more for what is past?
      Priest­must I cease to think of him?
      How hollow rings that word!
      Can time, can tears, can distance dim
      The memory of my lord?

      I said before, I saw not thee,
      Because, an hour agone,
      Over my eye-balls, heavily,
      The lids fell down like stone.
      But still my spirit's inward sight
      Beholds his image beam
      As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,
      As some red planet's gleam.

      Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,
      Tell not thy beads for me;
      Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,
      As dews upon the sea.
      Speak not one word of Heaven above,
      Rave not of Hell's alarms;
      Give me but back my Walter's love,
      Restore me to his arms!

      Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;
      Then will Hell shrink away,
      As I have seen night's terrors shun
      The conquering steps of day.
      'Tis my religion thus to love,
      My creed thus fixed to be;
      Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break
      My rock-like constancy!
      Charlotte Brontė
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        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!
        Charlotte Brontė
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          Presentiment

          Sister, you've sat there all the day,
          Come to the hearth awhile;
          The wind so wildly sweeps away,
          The clouds so darkly pile.
          That open book has lain, unread,
          For hours upon your knee;
          You've never smiled nor turned your head
          What can you, sister, see?

          Come hither, Jane, look down the field;
          How dense a mist creeps on!
          The path, the hedge, are both concealed,
          Ev'n the white gate is gone;
          No landscape through the fog I trace,
          No hill with pastures green;
          All featureless is nature's face,
          All masked in clouds her mien.

          Scarce is the rustle of a leaf
          Heard in our garden now;
          The year grows old, its days wax brief,
          The tresses leave its brow.
          The rain drives fast before the wind,
          The sky is blank and grey;
          o Jane, what sadness fills the mind
          On such a dreary day!

          You think too much, my sister dear;
          You sit too long alone;
          What though November days be drear?
          Full soon will they be gone.
          I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair,
          Come, Emma, sit by me;
          Our own fireside is never drear,
          Though late and wintry wane the year,
          Though rough the night may be.

          The peaceful glow of our fireside
          Imparts no peace to me:
          My thoughts would rather wander wide
          Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.
          I'm on a distant journey bound,
          And if, about my heart,
          Too closely kindred ties were bound,
          't would break when forced to part.

          Soon will November days be o'er:
          Well have you spoken, Jane:
          My own forebodings tell me more,
          For me, I know by presage sure,
          They'll ne'er return again.
          Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me
          Will bring or joy or gloom;
          They reach not that Eternity
          Which soon will be my home.

          Eight months are gone, the summer sun
          Sets in a glorious sky;
          a quiet field, all green and lone,
          Receives its rosy dye.
          Jane sits upon a shaded stile,
          Alone she sits there now;
          Her head rests on her hand the while,
          And thought o'ercasts her brow.

          She's thinking of one winter's day,
          a few short months ago,
          When Emma's bier was borne away
          o'er wastes of frozen snow.
          She's thinking how that drifted snow
          Dissolved in spring's first gleam,
          And how her sister's memory now
          Fades, even as fades a dream.

          The snow will whiten earth again,
          But Emma comes no more;
          She left, 'mid winter's sleet and rain,
          This world for Heaven's far shore.
          On Beulah's hills she wanders now,
          On Eden's tranquil plain;
          To her shall Jane hereafter go,
          She ne'er shall come to Jane!
          Charlotte Brontė
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            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!
            Charlotte Brontė
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              My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;
              Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;
              Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
              Over the path of the poor orphan child.
              Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
              Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
              Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only
              Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.

              Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,
              Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,
              God, in His mercy, protection is showing,
              Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

              Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing,
              Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,
              Still will my Father, with promise and blessing,
              Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.

              There is a thought that for strength should avail me,
              Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
              Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;
              God is a friend to the poor orphan child.
              Charlotte Brontė
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                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.
                Charlotte Brontė
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