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Selected Poems
EMILY BRONTE This book collects together Emily Brontes finest poems.EXTRACT FROM THE INTRODUCTIONEMILY BRONTE as a poet is still neglected today. Her novel Wuthering Heights, however, remains one of the great English novels. It continues to sell, continues to be adapted for radio, theatre, film and television, continues to inspire readers and be cited by critics.Wuthering Heights has entered British culture as both a serious work in academic circles and a series of cliches in popular culture. For scholars, Wuthering Heights is a superbly crafted and atmospheric piece of fiction which takes its place beside the great works of the 19th century (Tess of the dUrbervilles, Middlemarch, Great Expectations, Pride and Prejudice). For feminists, Emily Bronte has been appropriated as a proto-feminist, working largely in isolation in patriarchal Yorkshire, away from the metropolitan centres of culture, yet producing fiery fiction and poetry. For the general reader, Wuthering Heights is a fabulously moody, passionate and romantic book, with a powerful sense of pace, fully rounded characters and a thrill of mystery about it.The wind whistling through the heather in Winter is indeed the atmosphere of Wuthering Heights, and also of Brontes poetry. In poem after poem we find loving evocations of the we hear of the breezy moor (in The starry night shall tidings bring), the flowerless moors (in How still, how happy Those are words), and of the moors where the linnet was trilling/ Its song on the old granite stone (in Loud without the wind was roaring, the most powerful of Brontes moor-poems).The key element of the moors is the expanse of sky and the wind that rages across the wind is without doubt Brontes favourite element, and is the sound that accompanies the cliched adaptions of Wuthering Heights. In the poetry we hear of The wind in its glory and pride (Loud without the wind was roaring), the life-giving wind (High waving heather neath stormy blasts bending), That wind, I used to hear it swelling/ With joy divinely deep (That wind, I used to hear it swelling), the wailing wind (All hushed and still within the house), And winds shall wage a wilder war (How still, how happy ), and The wild winds coldly blow (The night is darkening round me).These simple, elemental facts - the heather, the moor, the wind, the night - are what recur in Emily Brontes poems, time after time. Dells, snow, linnets, rocky crags, greyness, darkness, graves; one can practically see her composing her lines as she sits in a darkened house at night, with the wind whistling outside.
128 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1952
2 people are currently reading
78 people want to read
About the author
Emily Brontë
1,558 books13.4k followersEmily Brontë was an English novelist and poet whose singular contribution to literature, Wuthering Heights, is now celebrated as one of the most powerful and original novels in the English language. Born into the remarkable Brontë family on 30 July 1818 in Thornton, Yorkshire, she was the fifth of six children of Maria Branwell and Patrick Brontë, an Irish clergyman. Her early life was marked by both intellectual curiosity and profound loss. After the death of her mother in 1821 and the subsequent deaths of her two eldest sisters in 1825, Emily and her surviving siblings— Charlotte, Anne, and Branwell—were raised in relative seclusion in the moorland village of Haworth, where their imaginations flourished in a household shaped by books, storytelling, and emotional intensity.
The Brontë children created elaborate fictional worlds, notably Angria and later Gondal, which served as an outlet for their creative energies. Emily, in particular, gravitated toward Gondal, a mysterious, windswept imaginary land she developed with her sister Anne. Her early poetry, much of it steeped in the mythology and characters of Gondal, demonstrated a remarkable lyrical force and emotional depth. These poems remained private until discovered by Charlotte in 1845, after which Emily reluctantly agreed to publish them in the 1846 collection Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, using the pseudonym Ellis Bell to conceal her gender. Though the volume sold few copies, critics identified Emily’s poems as the strongest in the collection, lauding her for their music, power, and visionary quality.
Emily was intensely private and reclusive by nature. She briefly attended schools in Cowan Bridge and Roe Head but was plagued by homesickness and preferred the solitude of the Yorkshire moors, which inspired much of her work. She worked briefly as a teacher but found the demands of the profession exhausting. She also studied in Brussels with Charlotte in 1842, but again found herself alienated and yearning for home. Throughout her life, Emily remained closely bonded with her siblings, particularly Anne, and with the landscape of Haworth, where she drew on the raw, untamed beauty of the moors for both her poetry and her fiction.
Her only novel, Wuthering Heights, was published in 1847, a year after the poetry collection, under her pseudonym Ellis Bell. Initially met with a mixture of admiration and shock, the novel’s structure, emotional intensity, and portrayal of violent passion and moral ambiguity stood in stark contrast to the conventions of Victorian fiction. Many readers, unable to reconcile its power with the expected gentility of a woman writer, assumed it had been written by a man. The novel tells the story of Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw—two characters driven by obsessive love, cruelty, and vengeance—and explores themes of nature, the supernatural, and the destructive power of unresolved emotion. Though controversial at the time, Wuthering Heights is now considered a landmark in English literature, acclaimed for its originality, psychological insight, and poetic vision.
Emily's personality has been the subject of much speculation, shaped in part by her sister Charlotte’s later writings and by Victorian biographies that often sought to romanticize or domesticate her character. While some accounts depict her as intensely shy and austere, others highlight her fierce independence, deep empathy with animals, and profound inner life. She is remembered as a solitary figure, closely attuned to the rhythms of the natural world, with a quiet but formidable intellect and a passion for truth and freedom. Her dog, Keeper, was a constant companion and, according to many, a window into her capacity for fierce, loyal love.
Emily Brontë died of tuberculosis on 19 December 1848 at the age of thirty, just a year after the publication of her novel. Her early death, following those of her brother Branwell and soon to
The Brontë children created elaborate fictional worlds, notably Angria and later Gondal, which served as an outlet for their creative energies. Emily, in particular, gravitated toward Gondal, a mysterious, windswept imaginary land she developed with her sister Anne. Her early poetry, much of it steeped in the mythology and characters of Gondal, demonstrated a remarkable lyrical force and emotional depth. These poems remained private until discovered by Charlotte in 1845, after which Emily reluctantly agreed to publish them in the 1846 collection Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, using the pseudonym Ellis Bell to conceal her gender. Though the volume sold few copies, critics identified Emily’s poems as the strongest in the collection, lauding her for their music, power, and visionary quality.
Emily was intensely private and reclusive by nature. She briefly attended schools in Cowan Bridge and Roe Head but was plagued by homesickness and preferred the solitude of the Yorkshire moors, which inspired much of her work. She worked briefly as a teacher but found the demands of the profession exhausting. She also studied in Brussels with Charlotte in 1842, but again found herself alienated and yearning for home. Throughout her life, Emily remained closely bonded with her siblings, particularly Anne, and with the landscape of Haworth, where she drew on the raw, untamed beauty of the moors for both her poetry and her fiction.
Her only novel, Wuthering Heights, was published in 1847, a year after the poetry collection, under her pseudonym Ellis Bell. Initially met with a mixture of admiration and shock, the novel’s structure, emotional intensity, and portrayal of violent passion and moral ambiguity stood in stark contrast to the conventions of Victorian fiction. Many readers, unable to reconcile its power with the expected gentility of a woman writer, assumed it had been written by a man. The novel tells the story of Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw—two characters driven by obsessive love, cruelty, and vengeance—and explores themes of nature, the supernatural, and the destructive power of unresolved emotion. Though controversial at the time, Wuthering Heights is now considered a landmark in English literature, acclaimed for its originality, psychological insight, and poetic vision.
Emily's personality has been the subject of much speculation, shaped in part by her sister Charlotte’s later writings and by Victorian biographies that often sought to romanticize or domesticate her character. While some accounts depict her as intensely shy and austere, others highlight her fierce independence, deep empathy with animals, and profound inner life. She is remembered as a solitary figure, closely attuned to the rhythms of the natural world, with a quiet but formidable intellect and a passion for truth and freedom. Her dog, Keeper, was a constant companion and, according to many, a window into her capacity for fierce, loyal love.
Emily Brontë died of tuberculosis on 19 December 1848 at the age of thirty, just a year after the publication of her novel. Her early death, following those of her brother Branwell and soon to
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Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
July 9, 2011
A delightful overview of Emily Bronte's poetry. A nice selection, and some really standout pieces.
January 25, 2021
Poems by Emily Brontë
Fascinating poems by a fascinating woman who was fascinated by winter, death, solitude, love, nature and stars. *****
“STARS” (1846) by Emily Brontë
Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored my earth to joy
Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?
All through the night, your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine,
And with a full heart's thankful sighs
I blessed that watch divine!
I was at peace, and drank your beams
As they were life to me
And reveled in my changeful dreams
Like petrel on the sea.
Thought followed thought—star followed star
Through boundless regions on,
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through and proved us one.
Why did the morning rise to break
So great, so pure a spell,
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek
Where your cool radiance fell?
Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight,
His fierce beams struck my brow;
The soul of Nature sprang elate,
But mine sank sad and low!
My lids closed down—yet through their veil
I saw him blazing still;
And bathe in gold the misty dale,
And flash upon the hill.
I turned me to the pillow then
To call back Night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again
Throb with my heart and me!
It would not do—the pillow glowed
And glowed both roof and floor,
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door.
The curtains waved, the wakened flies
Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise
And give them leave to roam.
O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;
O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn—
That drains the blood of suffering men;
Drinks tears, instead of dew:
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you!
- - -
“TO IMAGINATION” (1846) by Emily Brontë
When weary with the long day's care,
And earthly change from pain to pain,
And lost, and ready to despair,
Thy kind voice calls me back again:
Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,
While then canst speak with such a tone!
So hopeless is the world without;
The world within I doubly prize;
Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,
And cold suspicion never rise;
Where thou, and I, and Liberty,
Have undisputed sovereignty.
What matters it, that all around
Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,
If but within our bosom's bound
We hold a bright, untroubled sky,
Warm with ten thousand mingled rays
Of suns that know no winter days?
Reason, indeed, may oft complain
For Nature's sad reality,
And tell the suffering heart how vain
Its cherished dreams must always be;
And Truth may rudely trample down
The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:
But thou art ever there, to bring
The hovering vision back, and breathe
New glories o'er the blighted spring,
And call a lovelier Life from Death.
And whisper, with a voice divine,
Of real worlds, as bright as thine.
I trust not to thy phantom bliss,
Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour,
With never-failing thankfulness,
I welcome thee, Benignant Power;
Sure solacer of human cares,
And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!
- - -
“HOW CLEAR SHE SHINES”
How clear she shines ! How quietly
I lie beneath her guardian light;
While heaven and earth are whispering me,
" To morrow, wake, but, dream to-night."
Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love !
These throbbing temples softly kiss;
And bend my lonely couch above
And bring me rest, and bring me bliss.
….
While gazing on the stars that glow
Above me, in that storm-less sea,
I long to hope that all the woe
Creation knows, is held in thee !
And, this shall be my dream to-night;
I'll think the heaven of glorious spheres
Is rolling on its course of light
In endless bliss, through endless years;
I'll think, there's not one world above,
Far as these straining eyes can see,
Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love,
Or Virtue crouched to Infamy;
…
- - - - -
“HONOUR'S MARTYR”
The moon is full this winter night;
The stars are clear, though few;
And every window glistens bright
With leaves of frozen dew.
The sweet moon through your lattice gleams,
And lights your room like day;
And there you pass, in happy dreams,
The peaceful hours away!
. . .
So foes pursue, and cold allies
Mistrust me, every one:
Let me be false in others’ eyes,
If faithful in my own.
- - - -
The moon has set, but Venus shines
A silent silvery star.
- - -
High waving heather, 'neath stormy blasts bending,
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,
Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
- - -
“The Two Children” by Emily Brontë
Heavy hangs the raindrop
From the burdened spray;
Heavy broods the damp mist
On uplands far away;
Heavy looms the dull sky,
Heavy rolls the sea—
And heavy beats the young heart
Beneath that lonely tree.
Never has a blue streak
Cleft the clouds since morn—
Never has his grim Fate
Smiled since he was born.
Frowning on the infant,
Shadowing childhood’s joy,
Guardian angel knows not
That melancholy boy.
Day is passing swiftly
Its sad and sombre prime;
Youth is fast invading
Sterner manhood’s time.
…………….
I KNOW that to-night the wind it is sighing,
The soft August wind, over forest and moor;
While I in a grave-like chill am lying
On the damp black flags of my dungeon floor.
I know that the harvest-moon is shining;
She neither will soar nor wane for me;
Yet I weary, weary, with vain repining,
One gleam of her heaven-bright face to see.
For this constant darkness is wasting the gladness,
Fast wasting the gladness of life away;
It gathers up thoughts akin to madness,
That never would cloud the world of day.
I chide with my soul—I bid it cherish
The feelings it lived on when I was free,
But sighing it murmurs, 'Let memory perish,
Forget, for my friends have forgotten me.'
Alas! I did think that they were weeping
Such tears as I weep—it is not so!
Their careless young eyes are closed in sleeping;
Their brows are unshadowed, undimmed by woe.
Might I go to their beds, I'd rouse that slumber,
My spirit should startle their rest and tell,
How hour after hour, I wakefully number,
Deep buried from light in my lonely cell!
Yet let them dream on; tho' dreary dreaming
Would haunt my pillow if they were here;
And I were laid warmly under the gleaming
Of that guardian moon and her comrade star.
Better that I my own fate mourning,
Should pine alone in this prison gloom;
Then waken free on the summer morning
And feel they were suffering this awful doom.
August 1845.
- - -
……………………….
“Then like a tender child whose hand did just enfold
Safe in its eager grasp a bird it wept to hold
When pierced with one wild glance from the troubled hazel eye
It gushes into tears and lets its treasure fly
Thus ruth and selfish love together striving tore
The heart all newly taught to pity and adore;
If I should break the chain, I felt my bird would go
Yet I must break the chain or seal the prisoner's woe -” lines 113-120
Bird = emotion
Jailer = locked heart
Fascinating poems by a fascinating woman who was fascinated by winter, death, solitude, love, nature and stars. *****
“STARS” (1846) by Emily Brontë
Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored my earth to joy
Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?
All through the night, your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine,
And with a full heart's thankful sighs
I blessed that watch divine!
I was at peace, and drank your beams
As they were life to me
And reveled in my changeful dreams
Like petrel on the sea.
Thought followed thought—star followed star
Through boundless regions on,
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through and proved us one.
Why did the morning rise to break
So great, so pure a spell,
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek
Where your cool radiance fell?
Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight,
His fierce beams struck my brow;
The soul of Nature sprang elate,
But mine sank sad and low!
My lids closed down—yet through their veil
I saw him blazing still;
And bathe in gold the misty dale,
And flash upon the hill.
I turned me to the pillow then
To call back Night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again
Throb with my heart and me!
It would not do—the pillow glowed
And glowed both roof and floor,
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door.
The curtains waved, the wakened flies
Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise
And give them leave to roam.
O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;
O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn—
That drains the blood of suffering men;
Drinks tears, instead of dew:
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you!
- - -
“TO IMAGINATION” (1846) by Emily Brontë
When weary with the long day's care,
And earthly change from pain to pain,
And lost, and ready to despair,
Thy kind voice calls me back again:
Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,
While then canst speak with such a tone!
So hopeless is the world without;
The world within I doubly prize;
Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,
And cold suspicion never rise;
Where thou, and I, and Liberty,
Have undisputed sovereignty.
What matters it, that all around
Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,
If but within our bosom's bound
We hold a bright, untroubled sky,
Warm with ten thousand mingled rays
Of suns that know no winter days?
Reason, indeed, may oft complain
For Nature's sad reality,
And tell the suffering heart how vain
Its cherished dreams must always be;
And Truth may rudely trample down
The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:
But thou art ever there, to bring
The hovering vision back, and breathe
New glories o'er the blighted spring,
And call a lovelier Life from Death.
And whisper, with a voice divine,
Of real worlds, as bright as thine.
I trust not to thy phantom bliss,
Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour,
With never-failing thankfulness,
I welcome thee, Benignant Power;
Sure solacer of human cares,
And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!
- - -
“HOW CLEAR SHE SHINES”
How clear she shines ! How quietly
I lie beneath her guardian light;
While heaven and earth are whispering me,
" To morrow, wake, but, dream to-night."
Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love !
These throbbing temples softly kiss;
And bend my lonely couch above
And bring me rest, and bring me bliss.
….
While gazing on the stars that glow
Above me, in that storm-less sea,
I long to hope that all the woe
Creation knows, is held in thee !
And, this shall be my dream to-night;
I'll think the heaven of glorious spheres
Is rolling on its course of light
In endless bliss, through endless years;
I'll think, there's not one world above,
Far as these straining eyes can see,
Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love,
Or Virtue crouched to Infamy;
…
- - - - -
“HONOUR'S MARTYR”
The moon is full this winter night;
The stars are clear, though few;
And every window glistens bright
With leaves of frozen dew.
The sweet moon through your lattice gleams,
And lights your room like day;
And there you pass, in happy dreams,
The peaceful hours away!
. . .
So foes pursue, and cold allies
Mistrust me, every one:
Let me be false in others’ eyes,
If faithful in my own.
- - - -
The moon has set, but Venus shines
A silent silvery star.
- - -
High waving heather, 'neath stormy blasts bending,
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,
Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
- - -
“The Two Children” by Emily Brontë
Heavy hangs the raindrop
From the burdened spray;
Heavy broods the damp mist
On uplands far away;
Heavy looms the dull sky,
Heavy rolls the sea—
And heavy beats the young heart
Beneath that lonely tree.
Never has a blue streak
Cleft the clouds since morn—
Never has his grim Fate
Smiled since he was born.
Frowning on the infant,
Shadowing childhood’s joy,
Guardian angel knows not
That melancholy boy.
Day is passing swiftly
Its sad and sombre prime;
Youth is fast invading
Sterner manhood’s time.
…………….
I KNOW that to-night the wind it is sighing,
The soft August wind, over forest and moor;
While I in a grave-like chill am lying
On the damp black flags of my dungeon floor.
I know that the harvest-moon is shining;
She neither will soar nor wane for me;
Yet I weary, weary, with vain repining,
One gleam of her heaven-bright face to see.
For this constant darkness is wasting the gladness,
Fast wasting the gladness of life away;
It gathers up thoughts akin to madness,
That never would cloud the world of day.
I chide with my soul—I bid it cherish
The feelings it lived on when I was free,
But sighing it murmurs, 'Let memory perish,
Forget, for my friends have forgotten me.'
Alas! I did think that they were weeping
Such tears as I weep—it is not so!
Their careless young eyes are closed in sleeping;
Their brows are unshadowed, undimmed by woe.
Might I go to their beds, I'd rouse that slumber,
My spirit should startle their rest and tell,
How hour after hour, I wakefully number,
Deep buried from light in my lonely cell!
Yet let them dream on; tho' dreary dreaming
Would haunt my pillow if they were here;
And I were laid warmly under the gleaming
Of that guardian moon and her comrade star.
Better that I my own fate mourning,
Should pine alone in this prison gloom;
Then waken free on the summer morning
And feel they were suffering this awful doom.
August 1845.
- - -
……………………….
“Then like a tender child whose hand did just enfold
Safe in its eager grasp a bird it wept to hold
When pierced with one wild glance from the troubled hazel eye
It gushes into tears and lets its treasure fly
Thus ruth and selfish love together striving tore
The heart all newly taught to pity and adore;
If I should break the chain, I felt my bird would go
Yet I must break the chain or seal the prisoner's woe -” lines 113-120
Bird = emotion
Jailer = locked heart
February 2, 2018
Abandoned. Life is too short to force myself to read this collection. There are some really well-written poems in here, but also a lot of mediocre ones and the utter monotony of the subject is extremely wearing.
February 3, 2021
Some of the best poems by Emily Brontë
.
High waving heather, 'neath stormy blasts bending,
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,
Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
.
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
.
Starry night shall tidings bring, The
Go out upon the breezy moor,
Watch for a bird with sable wing,
And beak and talons dropping gore.
Look not around, look not beneath,
But mutely trace its airy way;
Mark where it lights upon the heath,
Then wanderer kneel thee down and pray.
What fortune may await thee there
I will not and I dare not tell,
But Heaven is moved by fervent prayer
And God is mercy—fare thee well!
.
.
High waving heather, 'neath stormy blasts bending,
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,
Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
.
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
.
Starry night shall tidings bring, The
Go out upon the breezy moor,
Watch for a bird with sable wing,
And beak and talons dropping gore.
Look not around, look not beneath,
But mutely trace its airy way;
Mark where it lights upon the heath,
Then wanderer kneel thee down and pray.
What fortune may await thee there
I will not and I dare not tell,
But Heaven is moved by fervent prayer
And God is mercy—fare thee well!
.
April 24, 2020
Instagram Review: www.instagram.com/p/B-I22CGA7yU/
I had never read anything from Emily Bronte before I picked up this collection on a whim at the bookstore cash register. If I hadn't already known that the Brontes all produced consistently remarkable work that forever altered the western literary tapestry, I might have assumed from the selections included here that Emily Bronte was a one-note poet who couldn't finish. I might never have read anything from her again. It's a good thing I knew enough to know I had just picked up a bad collection.
I can't speak for why the editor made his selections, but several of the poems included here seem to cut off before completion. Also, beware reading these alone during a storm or when you're feeling bad about the world. These poems are breast-beaters.
I give this a shriveling three stars for what should have been a good collection and wasn't. Stay healthy out there everyone! <3
I had never read anything from Emily Bronte before I picked up this collection on a whim at the bookstore cash register. If I hadn't already known that the Brontes all produced consistently remarkable work that forever altered the western literary tapestry, I might have assumed from the selections included here that Emily Bronte was a one-note poet who couldn't finish. I might never have read anything from her again. It's a good thing I knew enough to know I had just picked up a bad collection.
I can't speak for why the editor made his selections, but several of the poems included here seem to cut off before completion. Also, beware reading these alone during a storm or when you're feeling bad about the world. These poems are breast-beaters.
I give this a shriveling three stars for what should have been a good collection and wasn't. Stay healthy out there everyone! <3
June 4, 2025
Gorgeous! Expressive imagery and allegory conveying deep, dissonant emotions of loss, heartache, family memories, longing, suicidal ideations, and tepid optimism to face life’s challenges. Very much a night owl. Metaphoric imagery is clearly the prism through which she understands her emotions and unlocks the world — the four seasons (moods; life cycle), stars (hope), moon (comfort; unappreciated friend), the four winds, waves (fate; relentless time), the sea (eternity; demarcation between earth and unknown), seashore (death; next phase), eastern sunrise and western sunset (birth/death). And so it goes.
And beautifully crafted, with shifting technical rhyme schemes that alternate subtly yet powerfully — between poems and often within poems — to speed/slow moments, and conclude with cascading crescendos. Wow. Loved this and will definitely re-read.
And beautifully crafted, with shifting technical rhyme schemes that alternate subtly yet powerfully — between poems and often within poems — to speed/slow moments, and conclude with cascading crescendos. Wow. Loved this and will definitely re-read.
December 31, 2021
favourite poems :
Remembrance (p.12)
A Death Scene (p.14)
Song (p.17)
The Prisoner (A Fragment) (p.22)
How Clear She Shines (p.31)
Plead For Me (p.34)
Stanzas To- (p.39)
Honour’s Martyr (p.40)
Stanzas (p.44)
My Comforter (p.45)
The Old Stoic (p.47)
Redbreast Early (p.50)
There Shines The Moon (p.51)
O God of Heaven (p.60)
Alone I Sat (p.69)
Sleep Brings No Joy (p.71)
Lines (p.75)
O Mother (p.76) !!!!
Gleneden’s Dream (p.85)
A Little While (p.100)
Remembrance (p.12)
A Death Scene (p.14)
Song (p.17)
The Prisoner (A Fragment) (p.22)
How Clear She Shines (p.31)
Plead For Me (p.34)
Stanzas To- (p.39)
Honour’s Martyr (p.40)
Stanzas (p.44)
My Comforter (p.45)
The Old Stoic (p.47)
Redbreast Early (p.50)
There Shines The Moon (p.51)
O God of Heaven (p.60)
Alone I Sat (p.69)
Sleep Brings No Joy (p.71)
Lines (p.75)
O Mother (p.76) !!!!
Gleneden’s Dream (p.85)
A Little While (p.100)
January 26, 2022
𝙰 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚖𝚜
✨ Stars
✨ Anticipation
✨ The prisoner
✨ Hope
✨ To imagination
✨ How clear she shines
✨ Sympathy
✨ Death
✨ Stanzas
✨ And first an hour
✨ Sleep brings no joy
✨ O mother
✨ O evening why
✨ Fall leaves fall
✨ If grief for grief
✨ I see around me
✨ Had there been falsehood
✨ She dried her tears
✨ Stars
✨ Anticipation
✨ The prisoner
✨ Hope
✨ To imagination
✨ How clear she shines
✨ Sympathy
✨ Death
✨ Stanzas
✨ And first an hour
✨ Sleep brings no joy
✨ O mother
✨ O evening why
✨ Fall leaves fall
✨ If grief for grief
✨ I see around me
✨ Had there been falsehood
✨ She dried her tears
October 22, 2017
Alas, this was too dreary and downright depressing for me to enjoy at this stage of my life.
December 31, 2021
Emily Brontë, one of the original sad girls
June 27, 2022
These poems were too dreary for me. I just couldn't connect with them. The quality of writing is amazing but the tone reminded me of twilight. It was like there was a blue filter over everything.
I still recommend reading this just to experience the classic writing style.
I still recommend reading this just to experience the classic writing style.
December 14, 2017
I liked these. They remind me slightly of Emily Dickinson in a spare rangy way. And since it's from a Bronte, always worth a look. (even if I personally can't stand Wuthering Heights...) But they are also predominately very dark and sad. I must admit after reading this back in '98, i never felt like reading it again.
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December 14, 2017took this with me to Haworth in 2012
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews