Anne Brontë: 4 Poems

Anne Brontë

(1820-1849)

 

The Penitent

I mourn with thee, and yet rejoice

That thou shouldst sorrow so;

With angel choirs I join my voice

To bless the sinner’s woe.

 

Though friends and kindred turn away,

And laugh thy grief to scorn;

I hear the great Redeemer say,

“Blessed are ye that mourn.”

 

Hold on thy course, nor deem it strange

That earthly cords are riven:

Man may lament the wondrous change,

But “there is joy in heaven!”

 

A Reminiscence

Yes, thou art gone! and never more

Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;

But I may pass the old church door,

And pace the floor that covers thee,

 

May stand upon the cold, damp stone,

And think that, frozen, lies below

The lightest heart that I have known,

The kindest I shall ever know.

 

Yet, though I cannot see thee more,

‘Tis still a comfort to have seen;

And though thy transient life is o’er,

‘Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;

 

To think a soul so near divine,

Within a form so angel fair,

United to a heart like thine,

Has gladdened once our humble sphere.

 

Lines composed in a Wood

on a windy Day

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring

And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;

For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,

Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

 

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,

The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;

The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,

The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky

 

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing

The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;

I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,

And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!

 

The Arbour

I’ll rest me in this sheltered bower,

And look upon the clear blue sky

That smiles upon me through the trees,

Which stand so thick clustering by;

 

And view their green and glossy leaves,

All glistening in the sunshine fair;

And list the rustling of their boughs,

So softly whispering through the air.

 

And while my ear drinks in the sound,

My winged soul shall fly away;

Reviewing lone departed years

As one mild, beaming, autumn day;

 

And soaring on to future scenes,

Like hills and woods, and valleys green,

All basking in the summer’s sun,

But distant still, and dimly seen.

 

Oh, list! ’tis summer’s very breath

That gently shakes the rustling trees–

But look! the snow is on the ground–

How can I think of scenes like these?

 

‘Tis but the FROST that clears the air,

And gives the sky that lovely blue;

They’re smiling in a WINTER’S sun,

Those evergreens of sombre hue.

 

And winter’s chill is on my heart–

How can I dream of future bliss?

How can my spirit soar away,

Confined by such a chain as this?

Acton Bell (Anna Brontë) poetry

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