Anna Brontë: 3 Poems

Anne Brontë

(1820-1849)

 

Stanzas

Oh, weep not, love! each tear that springs

In those dear eyes of thine,

To me a keener suffering brings

Than if they flowed from mine.

 

And do not droop! however drear

The fate awaiting thee;

For MY sake combat pain and care,

And cherish life for me!

 

I do not fear thy love will fail;

Thy faith is true, I know;

But, oh, my love! thy strength is frail

For such a life of woe.

 

Were ‘t not for this, I well could trace

(Though banished long from thee)

Life’s rugged path, and boldly face

The storms that threaten me.

 

Fear not for me–I’ve steeled my mind

Sorrow and strife to greet;

Joy with my love I leave behind,

Care with my friends I meet.

 

A mother’s sad reproachful eye,

A father’s scowling brow–

But he may frown and she may sigh:

I will not break my vow!

 

I love my mother, I revere

My sire, but fear not me–

Believe that Death alone can tear

This faithful heart from thee.

 

If this be all

O God! if this indeed be all

That Life can show to me;

If on my aching brow may fall

No freshening dew from Thee;

 

If with no brighter light than this

The lamp of hope may glow,

And I may only dream of bliss,

And wake to weary woe;

 

If friendship’s solace must decay,

When other joys are gone,

And love must keep so far away,

While I go wandering on,–

 

Wandering and toiling without gain,

The slave of others’ will,

With constant care, and frequent pain,

Despised, forgotten still;

 

Grieving to look on vice and sin,

Yet powerless to quell

The silent current from within,

The outward torrent’s swell

 

While all the good I would impart,

The feelings I would share,

Are driven backward to my heart,

And turned to wormwood there;

 

If clouds must EVER keep from sight

The glories of the Sun,

And I must suffer Winter’s blight,

Ere Summer is begun;

 

If Life must be so full of care,

Then call me soon to thee;

Or give me strength enough to bear

My load of misery.

 

Home

How brightly glistening in the sun

The woodland ivy plays!

While yonder beeches from their barks

Reflect his silver rays.

 

That sun surveys a lovely scene

From softly smiling skies;

And wildly through unnumbered trees

The wind of winter sighs:

 

Now loud, it thunders o’er my head,

And now in distance dies.

But give me back my barren hills

Where colder breezes rise;

 

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees

Can yield an answering swell,

But where a wilderness of heath

Returns the sound as well.

 

For yonder garden, fair and wide,

With groves of evergreen,

Long winding walks, and borders trim,

And velvet lawns between;

 

Restore to me that little spot,

With gray walls compassed round,

Where knotted grass neglected lies,

And weeds usurp the ground.

 

Though all around this mansion high

Invites the foot to roam,

And though its halls are fair within–

Oh, give me back my HOME!

 

Anne Brontë poetry

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