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No es de cobarde mi alma
A collection of Emily Brontë's poetic works, including the Gondal poems, written alongside her sister Anne.
36 pages, Unknown Binding
Published January 1, 2018
13 people are currently reading
407 people want to read
About the author
Emily Brontë
1,446 books13.5k 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
December 14, 2017
Emily Bronte has been viewed as a self centered, crazy malcontent. Yes, she was a woman of unyielding independence, but Emily was also a poet of rare magnitude. She was of the finest poets in the English language, "ranked by some as comparable to Byron." Only a few poems were published in her lifetime. The title of this book is taken from the first line from this beautiful poem.
No coward soul of mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere;
I see Heaven glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty ever-present Deity;
Life, that in me hast rest
As I -- Undying Life -- have power in Thee.
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts -- unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main --
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.
With wide--embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years;
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears;
Though Earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And thou were left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee.
There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou are Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.
No coward soul of mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere;
I see Heaven glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty ever-present Deity;
Life, that in me hast rest
As I -- Undying Life -- have power in Thee.
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts -- unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main --
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.
With wide--embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years;
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears;
Though Earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And thou were left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee.
There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou are Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.
January 25, 2022
Feminismo, ansias de libertad, desolación y una prosa a veces es un poco difícil de interpretar, en esta colección de poemas que reflejan la "exaltación de la libertad y la defensa de la imaginación".
July 3, 2025
Poor soul
November 14, 2025
The Bronte sisters had a hard hand dealt to them with their brother Branwell's poor choices, yet they took their despair and processed it through words. There is so much depth here in the realm of human emotion. They are her own versions of the Psalms that she was willing to publish and share with others. While dark, there is so much to resonate with even in the bleakest of poems. They are beautiful, moving, sad, and genuine.
December 18, 2025
no coward soul is mine, no trembler in the world’s storm troubled sphere
August 5, 2023
hermoso💗una oda a la imaginación y a la fantasía
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
January 18, 2023
"Tu mente siempre se mueve por las regiones más oscuras."
Decidí estudiar literatura a los 11/12 años cuando terminé de leer Cumbres Borrascosas. Dije en voz alta: ''Quiero dedicarme a los libros toda mi vida'' y ahora a los 28 años, luego de leer estos poemas lo corroboro: tomé la decisión correcta. Lo que existe hoy en mi persona es también producto de Emily. Bellezas, lápidas, cemento, tumbas, naturaleza, viento. Lamento, muerte, vida. Y como dice el prólogo: para todas las almas que viven entre suspiros.
El amor nunca ha sido amor sin un poco de odio.
La vida nunca ha sido vida sin tener conocimiento de la muerte.
Hermosa recopilación. Hice muchas anotaciones en los márgenes, la próxima vez que lo lea, seguro serán más.
Decidí estudiar literatura a los 11/12 años cuando terminé de leer Cumbres Borrascosas. Dije en voz alta: ''Quiero dedicarme a los libros toda mi vida'' y ahora a los 28 años, luego de leer estos poemas lo corroboro: tomé la decisión correcta. Lo que existe hoy en mi persona es también producto de Emily. Bellezas, lápidas, cemento, tumbas, naturaleza, viento. Lamento, muerte, vida. Y como dice el prólogo: para todas las almas que viven entre suspiros.
El amor nunca ha sido amor sin un poco de odio.
La vida nunca ha sido vida sin tener conocimiento de la muerte.
Hermosa recopilación. Hice muchas anotaciones en los márgenes, la próxima vez que lo lea, seguro serán más.
December 14, 2017
Best. Poem. Ever. Need I say more... I don't think so. Emily Bronte is a bad a**.
December 14, 2017
This poem is very memorable speaking of Bronte's strong faith in God and how she is not fearful of Death.
February 22, 2024
Though earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee
There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.
The poem inaugurates with a lyrical stress on the poet's own feisty, fighting spirit, triumphant over all uncertainties and prosecutions of the unforgiving situations of life. But the focus moves to the adored image of the Supreme Creator whose omnipotence, grace and love prompts the poet to sing an anthem. The poet expresses her own heroic desire to meet the Creator person to person through death. She is almost gearing up for the passage from earth to heaven. Throughout the narrative, the thought of ‘self’ remains indispensably imperative, till the precise finish.
But the ‘self’ is effaced as Emily advances with her reverence of God in this poem.
This piece, initially entitled ‘Last Lines’, is among the few poetical configurations which prove that though principally known for her novels, Emily was in essence a poet.
What is most surprising is that I somehow did not end up reviewing this poem on my profile.
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee
There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.
The poem inaugurates with a lyrical stress on the poet's own feisty, fighting spirit, triumphant over all uncertainties and prosecutions of the unforgiving situations of life. But the focus moves to the adored image of the Supreme Creator whose omnipotence, grace and love prompts the poet to sing an anthem. The poet expresses her own heroic desire to meet the Creator person to person through death. She is almost gearing up for the passage from earth to heaven. Throughout the narrative, the thought of ‘self’ remains indispensably imperative, till the precise finish.
But the ‘self’ is effaced as Emily advances with her reverence of God in this poem.
This piece, initially entitled ‘Last Lines’, is among the few poetical configurations which prove that though principally known for her novels, Emily was in essence a poet.
What is most surprising is that I somehow did not end up reviewing this poem on my profile.
March 30, 2022
Las ganas de libertad que expresa la autora, de comprensión y contención amorosa, en una época donde la moralidad cristiana definía lo bueno o lo malo, conmueven. Me gustó como relata desde su conexión con la naturaleza, como se relaciona con ella de forma contemplativa y se ve a sí misma en sus procesos personales. Me gustó, pero la traducción al español puede ser un poco rebuscada en las palabras. "No hay lugar para la muerte, ni átomo que su poder podría dejar vacío: tú, tú eres ser y aliento, y lo que eres nunca podrá ser destruido" <3
October 8, 2025
me encantaaa💗🥺
“Fuerte me mantengo”
“Fuerte me mantengo, aunque he soportado ira, odio y amargo desprecio.
Fuerte me mantengo y al ver me río de la humanidad que ha peleado conmigo.
Sombra de la historia, condeno todos los caminos débiles de los hombres;
libera mi corazón, mi espíritu libre, haz señas para seguirte.
Los falsos y necios saben que si desprecias al desdeñoso mundo tu pobre alma está muy por debajo de otros gusanos, sean vanos.
Si el polvo, con orgullo ilimitado, se atreve a pedirme consejo, con los humildes seré;
los hombres altivos son nada para mí.”
“Fuerte me mantengo”
“Fuerte me mantengo, aunque he soportado ira, odio y amargo desprecio.
Fuerte me mantengo y al ver me río de la humanidad que ha peleado conmigo.
Sombra de la historia, condeno todos los caminos débiles de los hombres;
libera mi corazón, mi espíritu libre, haz señas para seguirte.
Los falsos y necios saben que si desprecias al desdeñoso mundo tu pobre alma está muy por debajo de otros gusanos, sean vanos.
Si el polvo, con orgullo ilimitado, se atreve a pedirme consejo, con los humildes seré;
los hombres altivos son nada para mí.”
September 17, 2023
"Si me llamas, puede que huya.
¿Es el amor acaso puro?
¿Puede la amistad marchitarse para renacer con los años?
No, aunque el suelo se cubra con lágrimas, tan justa como alguna vez creció la savia, una vez muerta, no volverá a fluir.
Más certero que el miedo, morada de muertos y razones, es el tiempo que separa corazones"
💔
¿Es el amor acaso puro?
¿Puede la amistad marchitarse para renacer con los años?
No, aunque el suelo se cubra con lágrimas, tan justa como alguna vez creció la savia, una vez muerta, no volverá a fluir.
Más certero que el miedo, morada de muertos y razones, es el tiempo que separa corazones"
💔
October 13, 2025
these are the poems of my hometown, of blustering, windy moorlands and heath, and comfortable fireplaces flickering against the night.
These poems remind me of the beauty and isolation, the sad and great Yorkshire Dales
These poems remind me of the beauty and isolation, the sad and great Yorkshire Dales
August 20, 2023
i love the way she writes here
October 2, 2018
There are times when these poems read like something written by a teenager who hasn't experienced much of life, but then there are also times when they manage to really stick in your heart like a little shard of glass. I copied a couple poems that I found especially haunting. The rest of them I will probably never think of again.
I was particularly interested in the Gondal poems, although they are fragmentary so it's hard to put together any sort of coherent storyline. Still, I relate to the creation of an imaginary world and the obsession to live inside of it and draw most of your creativity from it, and in this find a kindred spirit in Emily Bronte and her sisters.
PopSugar Reading Challenge Item: A Book by an author who uses a male pseudonym
I was particularly interested in the Gondal poems, although they are fragmentary so it's hard to put together any sort of coherent storyline. Still, I relate to the creation of an imaginary world and the obsession to live inside of it and draw most of your creativity from it, and in this find a kindred spirit in Emily Bronte and her sisters.
PopSugar Reading Challenge Item: A Book by an author who uses a male pseudonym
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December 14, 2017Truth
December 14, 2017
A decent collection. You can find my review here.
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