The Poetry Of Emily Jane Bronte
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In the small village of Haworth in Yorkshire the Bronte family created novels and poems that are still admired to this day around the world. The middle of the three Bronte sisters, Emily Jane was born on 30th July 1818. The author of ‘Wuthering Heights’ she was also a very talented poet as witnessed here in this collection. She died of tuberculosis at the age of only 30 on 19th December 1848. So frail at death her coffin measured only sixteen inches wide.
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The Poetry Of Emily Jane Bronte - Emily Jane Bronte
The Poetry Of Emily Jane Bronte
In the small village of Haworth in Yorkshire the Bronte family created novels and poems that are still admired to this day around the world.
The middle of the three Bronte sisters, Emily Jane was born on 30th July 1818. The author of ‘Wuthering Heights’ she was also a very talented poet as witnessed here in this collection.
She died of tuberculosis at the age of only 30 on 19th December 1848. So frail at death her coffin measured only sixteen inches wide.
Index Of Poems
Upon Her Soothing Breast
'Tis Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
A Little While, A Little While...
Me Thinks This Heart...
Long Neglect Has Worn Away
A Day Dream
A Death - Scene
A Little Budding Rose
Ah! Why, Because the Dazzling Sun
Anticipation
At Castle Wood
Come Hither, Child
Come, Walk With Me
Death, That Struck When I Was Most Confiding
Encouragement
Faith and Despondency
'Fall, leaves, fall'
Far, Far Away Is Mirth Withdrawn
High Waving Heather 'Neath Stormy Blasts Bending
Honour's Martyr
Hope
How Beautiful The Earth Is Still
How Clear She Shines
How Still, How Happy!
I Am the Only Being Whose Doom
I See Around Me Tombstones Grey
If Grief For Grief Can Touch Thee
Last Lines
Loud Without the Wind Was Roaring
Love and Friendship
Mild The Mist Upon The Hill
My Comforter
My Lady's Grave
No Coward Soul Is Mine
Often Rebuked, Yet Always Back Returning
Oh, For The Time When I Shall Sleep
'Yes, Holy Be Thy Resting Place'
Well Hast Thou Spoke
Warning and Reply
To Imagination
The Wind Was Rough Which Tore
The Wanderer From The Fold
The Visionary
The Two Children
The Sun Has Set
The Prisoner. A Fragment
The Prisoner
The Philosopher
The Old Stoic
The Night is Darkening Around Me
The Night - Wind
The Lady To Her Guitar
The Elder's Rebuke
The Blue Bell
That Wind I Used to Hear it Swelling
Sympathy
Stars
Stanzas to -
Stanzas
Spellbound
Speak, God Of Visions
Song
She Dried Her Tears
Shall Earth No More Inspire Thee
Self-Interrogation
Riches I hold In Light Esteem
Remembrance
R. Alcona to J. Brenzaida
Plead For Me
Silent is the House
Upon Her Soothing Breast
Upon her soothing breast
She lulled her little child,
A winter sunset in the west
A heav'nly glory smiled.
I gazed within thine earnest eyes
And read the sorrow brooding there;
I heard thy young breast torn with sighs,
And envied such despair.
'Tis Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,
But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.
And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.
A Little While, A Little While...
A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.
Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,
What thought, what scene invites thee now?
What spot, or near or far,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?
There is a spot, mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear,
So longed for, as the hearth of home?
The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them, how I love them all!
Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away,
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day.
A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side;
A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy