Anne Brontë: 2 Poems

Anne Brontë

(1820-1849)

 

Vanitas Vanitatum,

Omnia Vanitas

In all we do, and hear, and see,

Is restless Toil and Vanity.

While yet the rolling earth abides,

Men come and go like ocean tides;

 

And ere one generation dies,

Another in its place shall rise;

THAT, sinking soon into the grave,

Others succeed, like wave on wave;

 

And as they rise, they pass away.

The sun arises every day,

And hastening onward to the West,

He nightly sinks, but not to rest:

 

Returning to the eastern skies,

Again to light us, he must rise.

And still the restless wind comes forth,

Now blowing keenly from the North;

 

Now from the South, the East, the West,

For ever changing, ne’er at rest.

The fountains, gushing from the hills,

Supply the ever-running rills;

 

The thirsty rivers drink their store,

And bear it rolling to the shore,

But still the ocean craves for more.

‘Tis endless labour everywhere!

Sound cannot satisfy the ear,

 

Light cannot fill the craving eye,

Nor riches half our wants supply,

Pleasure but doubles future pain,

And joy brings sorrow in her train;

 

Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth–

What does she in this weary earth?

Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ,

Death comes, our labour to destroy;

 

To snatch the untasted cup away,

For which we toiled so many a day.

What, then, remains for wretched man?

To use life’s comforts while he can,

 

Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows,

Assist his friends, forgive his foes;

Trust God, and keep His statutes still,

Upright and firm, through good and ill;

 

Thankful for all that God has given,

Fixing his firmest hopes on Heaven;

Knowing that earthly joys decay,

But hoping through the darkest day.

 

Memory

Brightly the sun of summer shone

Green fields and waving woods upon,

And soft winds wandered by;

Above, a sky of purest blue,

Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,

Allured the gazer’s eye.

 

But what were all these charms to me,

When one sweet breath of memory

Came gently wafting by?

I closed my eyes against the day,

And called my willing soul away,

From earth, and air, and sky;

 

That I might simply fancy there

One little flower–a primrose fair,

Just opening into sight;

As in the days of infancy,

An opening primrose seemed to me

A source of strange delight.

 

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;

Nature’s chief beauties spring from thee;

Oh, still thy tribute bring

Still make the golden crocus shine

Among the flowers the most divine,

The glory of the spring.

 

Still in the wallflower’s fragrance dwell;

And hover round the slight bluebell,

My childhood’s darling flower.

Smile on the little daisy still,

The buttercup’s bright goblet fill

With all thy former power.

 

For ever hang thy dreamy spell

Round mountain star and heather bell,

And do not pass away

From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,

And whisper when the wild winds blow,

Or rippling waters play.

 

Is childhood, then, so all divine?

Or Memory, is the glory thine,

That haloes thus the past?

Not ALL divine; its pangs of grief

(Although, perchance, their stay be brief)

Are bitter while they last.

 

Nor is the glory all thine own,

For on our earliest joys alone

That holy light is cast.

With such a ray, no spell of thine

Can make our later pleasures shine,

Though long ago they passed.

 

 

Anne Brontë poetry

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