Charlotte Brontë Poems

Life

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day. 
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall ? 

Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly ! 

What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away ?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway ?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair ! 

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. 

Regret

Long ago I wished to leave 
" The house where I was born; " 
Long ago I used to grieve, 
My home seemed so forlorn. 
In other years, its silent rooms 
Were filled with haunting fears; 
Now, their very memory comes 
O'ercharged with tender tears. 

Life and marriage I have known, 
Things once deemed so bright; 
Now, how utterly is flown 
Every ray of light ! 
'Mid the unknown sea of life 
I no blest isle have found; 
At last, through all its wild wave's strife, 
My bark is homeward bound. 

Farewell, dark and rolling deep ! 
Farewell, foreign shore ! 
Open, in unclouded sweep, 
Thou glorious realm before ! 
Yet, though I had safely pass'd
That weary, vexed main, 
One loved voice, through surge and blast, 
Could call me back again. 

Though the soul's bright morning rose 
O'er Paradise for me, 
William ! even from Heaven's repose 
I'd turn, invoked by thee ! 
Storm nor surge should e'er arrest 
My soul, exulting then: 
All my heaven was once thy breast, 
Would it were mine again ! 

Pleasure 

A Short Poem or Else Not Say I

True pleasure breathes not city air, 
Nor in Art's temples dwells, 
In palaces and towers where 
The voice of Grandeur dwells.

No! Seek it where high Nature holds 
Her court 'mid stately groves, 
Where she her majesty unfolds, 
And in fresh beauty moves;

Where thousand birds of sweetest song, 
The wildly rushing storm 
And hundred streams which glide along, 
Her mighty concert form!

Go where the woods in beauty sleep 
Bathed in pale Luna's light, 
Or where among their branches sweep 
The hollow sounds of night.

Go where the warbling nightingale 
In gushes rich doth sing, 
Till all the lonely, quiet vale 
With melody doth ring.

Go, sit upon a mountain steep, 
And view the prospect round; 
The hills and vales, the valley's sweep, 
The far horizon bound.

Then view the wide sky overhead, 
The still, deep vault of blue, 
The sun which golden light doth shed, 
The clouds of pearly hue.

And as you gaze on this vast scene 
Your thoughts will journey far, 
Though hundred years should roll between 
On Time's swift-passing car.

To ages when the earth was yound, 
When patriarchs, grey and old, 
The praises of their god oft sung, 
And oft his mercies told.

You see them with their beards of snow, 
Their robes of ample form, 
Their lives whose peaceful, gentle flow, 
Felt seldom passion's storm.

Then a calm, solemn pleasure steals 
Into your inmost mind; 
A quiet aura your spirit feels, 
A softened stillness kind.