Poems by Anne Bronte

Sorted by title, showing title and first line

'Maiden, thou wert thoughtless once
Eternal power of earth and air,
My God (oh, let me call Thee mine,
A prisoner in a dungeon deep
Yes, thou art gone ! and never more
I'm buried now; I've done with life;
You may rejoice to think yourselves secure;
You may rejoice to think yourselves secure,
Fair was the evening and brightly the sun
She's gone, and twice the summer's sun
Oh, I am very weary,
Call me away; there's nothing here,
Oppressed with sin and woe,
I have gone backward in the work;
Why should such gloomy silence reign,
While on my lonely couch I lie,
Farewell to thee! but not farewell
What though the sun had left my sky;
Yes I will take a cheerful tone
Gloomily the clouds are sailing
How brightly glistening in the sun
O God! if this indeed be all
Blessed be Thou for all the joy
Jan 7th
My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
Though not a breath can enter here,
That summer sun, whose genial glow
Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground,
Brightly the sun of summer shone,
'O cast away your sorrow;
Why should such gloomy silence reign;
Music I love, but never strain
My God! O let me call Thee mine!
My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring,
I love the silent hour of night,
Oh, they have robbed me of the hope
O weep not, love! each tear that springs
'Tis strange to think, there was a time
Love, indeed thy strength is mighty
O, let me be alone a while,
'The mist is resting on the hill;
Ellen, you were thoughtless once
!Severed and gone, so many years!
We know where deepest lies the snow,
Come to the banquet, triumph in your songs!
Oh, weep not, love! each tear that springs
I'll rest me in this sheltered bower,
A fine and subtle spirit dwells
Poor restless dove, I pity thee;
Methought I saw him but I knew him not;
Though bleak these woods and damp the ground
Eternal Power, of earth and air!
Believe not those who say
That wind is from the North, I know it well;
1
1
I mourn with thee and yet rejoice
I have slept upon my couch,
Spirit of Earth! thy hand is chill:
I will not mourn thee, lovely one,
Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard;
In all we do, and hear, and see,
In all we do, and hear, and see,
Why, when I hear the stormy breath
1
When sinks my heart in hopeless gloom,
Weep not too much, my darling;
Yes, thou art gone! and never more
I dreamt last night; and in that dream

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy