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Poesie
Un tema ricorrente delle poesie, e certamente centrale nell'intero ciclo, è la libertà: intesa soprattutto come liberazione. [...] Emily voleva essere liberata dalla persona propria; dalla persona tangibile, esigibile, sociale. [...] Voleva esistere in qualcos'altro, in altra forma, altrove. Voleva fare di sé un puro ascolto delle voci della natura, puro sguardo e pura visione. Fare tutt'uno con la sua fantasia. La carne che la stringeva come una prigione era quella che la separava dalle presenze spettrali che abitano la notte, il sogno, le grotte. Essere la stessa cosa del suo sogno, e non sognare.
131 pages, Paperback
Published January 1, 1971
6 people are currently reading
219 people want to read
About the author
Emily Brontë
1,538 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 - 19 of 19 reviews
August 31, 2018
A poesia é o espelho da alma dos grandes artistas. Através do seu único romance eu não pode compreender a magnitude da vida de Emily. Mas lendo os seus poemas posso navegar pelas suas sombras, melancolias e esperanças. São poemas profundos e demonstram a crueldade da vida. A poesia é arte de transformar sentimentos em memória! Finalmente consigo observar esta escritor por que ela é verdadeiramente. Quanto mais exploro a poesia feminina, mas fascinada fico....
Hope
Hope was but a timid friend;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men.
She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars, one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away!
Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping;
If I listened, she would cease.
False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round;
Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!
Emily Jane Brontë
Hope
Hope was but a timid friend;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men.
She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars, one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away!
Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping;
If I listened, she would cease.
False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round;
Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!
Emily Jane Brontë
December 28, 2021
“Y ahora sólo quedamos los dos
Tan cerca que mis sentimientos se entrelazan
porque ya solamente pueden estar contigo “
Tan cerca que mis sentimientos se entrelazan
porque ya solamente pueden estar contigo “
April 3, 2020
Reviewed for Books and livres
Poetry is not my forte, but I've read poetry books before and survived - even loved them ! So I thought I would try a selection of poems by the author of one of my favorite novels of all times (Wuthering Heights, of course) and tried, tried, but failed to fully appreciate them.
I tried different manners of reading : one poem by one during one day for several days. Several poems in one sitting, but not too many. One poem per hour ! Nothing worked. And yet, I really wanted to love them, because of Emily...
My impression was that of reading gothic/desperate poems written by a teenager. I particularly thought of a teenager of mine, my youngest daughter (who wrote poetry, started several novels and has a vivid imagination). Some parts of the poems were really good, one made me think of Spleen by Baudelaire, but in these gloomy times of Covid19, being locked up all day long while spring is bursting outside and the weather is so sunny, this wasn't what I needed at all. Doom, gloom, death and a strange visitor at night who gives you the chills (he really did, that will be the poem I'll remember most !) might be what I would have loved reading when I was 20, but I need more celebration of life now.
I have to say I'm a bit pissed off that I didn't like them !
Poetry is not my forte, but I've read poetry books before and survived - even loved them ! So I thought I would try a selection of poems by the author of one of my favorite novels of all times (Wuthering Heights, of course) and tried, tried, but failed to fully appreciate them.
I tried different manners of reading : one poem by one during one day for several days. Several poems in one sitting, but not too many. One poem per hour ! Nothing worked. And yet, I really wanted to love them, because of Emily...
My impression was that of reading gothic/desperate poems written by a teenager. I particularly thought of a teenager of mine, my youngest daughter (who wrote poetry, started several novels and has a vivid imagination). Some parts of the poems were really good, one made me think of Spleen by Baudelaire, but in these gloomy times of Covid19, being locked up all day long while spring is bursting outside and the weather is so sunny, this wasn't what I needed at all. Doom, gloom, death and a strange visitor at night who gives you the chills (he really did, that will be the poem I'll remember most !) might be what I would have loved reading when I was 20, but I need more celebration of life now.
I have to say I'm a bit pissed off that I didn't like them !
June 23, 2019
«¿Qué importa si a nuestro alrededor
existen el peligro, la duda y la oscuridad,
si en el espacio que une nuestros pechos
poseemos un cielo brillante e imperturbable,
calentado por diez miel rayos de sol
que no han conocido el invierno?»
Reseña en español | Review in English (below)
Me ha encantado conocer el universo tan invernal y solitario que se desprende de los poemas de Emily Brontë, y especialmente a través de una edición de arte tan cuidadísima como esta de Uve Books. Aunque me parece que estamos ante una poesía muy intimista (las esperanzas puestas en el amor, los recuerdos de un ser querido que se ha ido, ciertas canciones a las estaciones o a la amistad), y aunque rozando a veces escenarios bastante góticos, nos encontramos también con conceptos muy cercanos a lo sublime y esa belleza extrema de la naturaleza que no conseguimos abarcar con la mente: Brontë nos cuenta que le «arrastra la marea del mundo» (While the world's tide is bearing me along;) y que «la esperanza glorifica, / al igual que la juventud, a mis ojos experimentados, / los millones de misterios de la naturaleza» (It is hope’s spell that glorifies, / Like youth, to my maturer eyes, / All Nature’s million mysteries). Y creo que en esa unión de intimismo y universalidad, de lo privado de su poesía junto a la naturaleza tan salvaje que nos describe, podemos hallar un poquito de cada uno de nosotros.
Muy recomendable porque no os arrepentiréis de conocer a la Emily Brontë poeta. Y aunque ya la hubieseis conocido, esta edición tan especial merece mucho la pena.
———
«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?»
I’m really glad my first approach to Emily Brontë’s poetry has been with a lovely Spanish “art” edition. I’m beyond thrilled for having got to know the wintery and lonely universe that emerges from her poems. Although I think we can see a very intimate poetry (hopes put in love, memories of a deceased loved one, or even certain songs celebrating the seasons or friendship), and sometimes even descriptions of rather gothic sceneries, Brontë creates concepts closer to the sublime and that extreme beauty of nature that we can not comprehend or measure: she tells us that «the world’s tide» is bearing her along, or that «It is hope’s spell that glorifies, / Like youth, to my maturer eyes, / All Nature’s million mysteries». And I think that in that union of intimacy and universality, of the privacy of his poetry together with the wild nature that she describes, we can find a little bit of our selves.
I’m sure I’ll come back to Emily Brontë’s poems again soon!
October 5, 2021
Oh, what beautiful poetry. Some of the poems left me gasping for breath, from astonishment and awe. As charming as poetry can be. Here's one of the many that I submitted myself to:
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.
The world is going; dark world, adieu!
Grim world, conceal thee till the day;
The heart thou canst not all subdue,
Must still resist, if thou delay!
Thy love I will not, will not share;
Thy hatred only wakes a smile;
Thy griefs may wound—thy wrongs may tear,
But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile!
While gazing on the stars that glow
Above me, in that stormless 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;
Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate,
The mangled wretch was forced to smile;
To match his patience 'gainst her hate,
His heart rebellious all the while.
Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong,
And helpless Reason warn in vain;
And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong;
And Joy the surest path to Pain;
And Peace, the lethargy of Grief;
And Hope, a phantom of the soul;
And Life, a labour, void and brief;
And Death, the despot of the whole!
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.
The world is going; dark world, adieu!
Grim world, conceal thee till the day;
The heart thou canst not all subdue,
Must still resist, if thou delay!
Thy love I will not, will not share;
Thy hatred only wakes a smile;
Thy griefs may wound—thy wrongs may tear,
But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile!
While gazing on the stars that glow
Above me, in that stormless 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;
Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate,
The mangled wretch was forced to smile;
To match his patience 'gainst her hate,
His heart rebellious all the while.
Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong,
And helpless Reason warn in vain;
And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong;
And Joy the surest path to Pain;
And Peace, the lethargy of Grief;
And Hope, a phantom of the soul;
And Life, a labour, void and brief;
And Death, the despot of the whole!
Read
September 27, 2023"Un tema ricorrente delle poesie, e certamente centrale nell'intero ciclo, è la libertà: intesa soprattutto come liberazione. [...] Emily voleva essere liberata dalla persona propria; dalla persona tangibile, esigibile, sociale. [...] Voleva esistere in qualcos'altro, in altra for- ma, altrove, Voleva fare di sé un puro ascolto delle voci della natu- ra, puro sguardo e pura visione. Fare tutt'uno con la sua fantasia. La carne che la stringeva come una prigione era quella che la sepa- rava dalle presenze spettrali che abitano la anotte, il sogno, le grotte. Essere la stessa cosa del suo sogno, e non sognare.."
May 25, 2020
cosita bonita ❤️
September 7, 2025
The Poems of Emily Bronte... DNF 25%
While I adored Wuthering Heights, I couldn't get into her poems... not for me.
While I adored Wuthering Heights, I couldn't get into her poems... not for me.
August 10, 2012
I found this book when I was browsing books on my nook. I am a HUGE fan of Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. It is one of my absolute favorite books of all time. So I typed in "Emily Bronte" in the search bar and this ebook of some of her poems came up. Until then, I didn't even know she wrote poetry. Being such a fan of Wuthering Heights I had to buy it. It's sort of like a sampling of her poems. The e-book is 16 pages. Her poems were first published in 1846 in a volume of poetry called Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. It was published under the Bronte sisters pseudonyms. Currer is Charlotte. Ellis is Emily. Acton is Alice. This volume came out the year before their novels Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey were published. In 1923 a book called The Complete Poems of Emily Jane Bronte was released. It included all of her poems published in Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell and 200 works taken from manuscript resources after Emily Bronte died in 1848.
The poems that I got in this e-book were very impressive. They all had a very serious tone to them. They were definitely intense. You could feel the emotion in them. The imagery used was also very good and I could picture what was happening. Sometimes I would go back and reread a line or stanza, not because it was written in a way that made it hard to read, but because I wanted to read over it again. The poems were like Wuthering Heights in their intensity. I don't remember the names of them, but there was one that particularly stood out to me, and that one was about death. If I recall correctly, there were at least a couple of poems about death. This reminded me of Emily Dickinson, who also has several poems about death. Charlotte Bronte said of her sister's poetry: "I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of verse in my sister Emily's handwriting....I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me -- a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music -- wild, melancholy, and elevating." Overall I really enjoyed these poems. I gave this book 4 stars. And it is definitely recommended if you are a fan of poetry.
*Information from http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13... *
The poems that I got in this e-book were very impressive. They all had a very serious tone to them. They were definitely intense. You could feel the emotion in them. The imagery used was also very good and I could picture what was happening. Sometimes I would go back and reread a line or stanza, not because it was written in a way that made it hard to read, but because I wanted to read over it again. The poems were like Wuthering Heights in their intensity. I don't remember the names of them, but there was one that particularly stood out to me, and that one was about death. If I recall correctly, there were at least a couple of poems about death. This reminded me of Emily Dickinson, who also has several poems about death. Charlotte Bronte said of her sister's poetry: "I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of verse in my sister Emily's handwriting....I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me -- a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music -- wild, melancholy, and elevating." Overall I really enjoyed these poems. I gave this book 4 stars. And it is definitely recommended if you are a fan of poetry.
*Information from http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13... *
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
August 2, 2014
Bronte often strikes a chord with me in her poems. She hits on a lot of emotions and feelings, some obscure and some more obvious, that I often didn't realise I had until she spells it out. Although much of her work is laced with sadness, I find it comforting that despite living completely different lives in vastly different time periods, the basic human experience still contains those familiar notes today.
Favourites: Stars, The Outcast Mother, A Daydream, To Imagination, Sympathy, The Night-Wind, Love & Friendship, The Two Children, Encouragement.
Favourites: Stars, The Outcast Mother, A Daydream, To Imagination, Sympathy, The Night-Wind, Love & Friendship, The Two Children, Encouragement.
August 31, 2023
primo approccio alle poesie di E. B.
molto interessante. Ho già letto ‘cime tempestose’ e mi ha divertito trovare molti elementi in comune. Preferisco Emily poetessa che scrittrice.
Consigliato da leggere in uno stato romantico tormentato
molto interessante. Ho già letto ‘cime tempestose’ e mi ha divertito trovare molti elementi in comune. Preferisco Emily poetessa che scrittrice.
Consigliato da leggere in uno stato romantico tormentato
October 26, 2021
Una edición preciosa!
December 18, 2022
3.5 stars
Read
November 5, 2024Tengo años sin leer poesía en inglés, y esta está hiper difícil. Quizás entendí un tercio, pero algún días Emily, algún día.
February 17, 2017
I couldn't really get into the poems about Gondal and Angria (the Brontë's made up kingdoms). I also have less love for rhyming poetry.
I have to admit I couldn't endure the gloominess of her poems -- somehow it didn't come across well to me in this form. Her poems do have the same flavour as 'Wuthering Heights'.
I have to admit I couldn't endure the gloominess of her poems -- somehow it didn't come across well to me in this form. Her poems do have the same flavour as 'Wuthering Heights'.
February 15, 2015
One of the best collections of poetry I have read. I just find her so descriptive and emotionally charged. Each poem has its own atmosphere that sucks you in. Moody and brooding done the way I like it.
March 29, 2016
We know hardly anything about the famous author of Wuthering Heights. Reading her spiritual and often cryptic poems is as close as we'll ever get to understanding her genius and unique world view.
February 26, 2023
Simply amazing💞
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