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Bronte Poetry links
Transcript of Bronte Poetry links
By Charlotte Brontë
My darling, thou wilt never know
The grinding agony of woe
That we have borne for thee.
Thus may we consolation tear
E’en from the depth of our despair
And wasting misery.
The nightly anguish thou art spared
When all the crushing truth is bared
To the awakening mind,
When the galled heart is pierced with grief,
Till wildly it implores relief,
But small relief can find.
Nor know’st thou what it is to lie
Looking forth with streaming eye
On life’s lone wilderness.
‘Weary, weary, dark and drear,
How shall I the journey bear,
The burden and distress?’
Then since thou art spared such pain
We will not wish thee here again;
He that lives must mourn.
God help us through our misery
And give us rest and joy with thee
When we reach our bourne!
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall ?
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Click anywhere & add an idea Tell me, tell me, smiling child,
What the past is like to thee?
"An autumn evening soft and mild
With a wind that sighs mournfully."
Tell me, what is the present hour?
"A green and flowery spray
Where a young bird sits gathering its power
To mount and fly away."
[Tell me, tell me,]1 what is the future, happy one?
"A sea beneath a cloudless sun;
a mighty, glorious, dazzling sea
Stretching into infinity.
Will the day be bright or cloudy?
Sweetly has its dawn begun;
But the heav'n may shake with thunder
Ere the setting of the sun.
Lady, watch Apollo's journey:
Thus thy first born's course shall be
If his beams through summer vapours
Warm the earth all placidly,
Her days will pass like a pleasant dream
In sweet tranquillity.
If it darken, if a shadow
Quench his rays and summon rain,
Flow'rs may open, buds may blossom:
Bud and flow'r alike are vain;
Her days shall pass a mournful story
All in care and tears and pain.
If the wind be fresh and free,
The wide skies clear and cloudless blue,
The woods and fields and golden flowers
Sparkling in sunshine and in dew,
Her days shall pass in Glory's light
The world's dry desert through.
On The Death Of Anne Brontë
THERE 's little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave ;
I 've lived the parting hour to see
Of one I would have died to save.
Calmly to watch the failing breath,
Wishing each sigh might be the last ;
Longing to see the shade of death
O'er those belovèd features cast.
The cloud, the stillness that must part
The darling of my life from me ;
And then to thank God from my heart,
To thank Him well and fervently ;
Although I knew that we had lost
The hope and glory of our life ;
And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,
Must bear alone the weary strife.