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Bronte: Poems
The Everyman's Library Pocket Poets hardcover series is popular for its compact size and reasonable price which does not compromise content. Poems: Bronte contains poems that demonstrate a sensibility elemental in its force with an imaginative discipline and flexibility of the highest order. Also included are an Editor's Note and an index of first lines.
256 pages, Hardcover
First published April 9, 1996
34 people are currently reading
876 people want to read
About the author
Emily Brontë
1,532 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 - 30 of 40 reviews
September 1, 2020
I memorised Emily Brontë's "The Old Stoic" the first time I read it.
The Old Stoic
Riches I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream,
That vanished with the morn:
And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, “Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!”
Yes, as my swift days near their goal:
’Tis all that I implore;
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.
ETA : other good poems too. solid book. go for it.
The Old Stoic
Riches I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream,
That vanished with the morn:
And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, “Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!”
Yes, as my swift days near their goal:
’Tis all that I implore;
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.
ETA : other good poems too. solid book. go for it.
October 13, 2020
There were some poems I really enjoyed. Quite like Hardy, Emily Brontë is quite good at painting a picture set in nature, but I felt a lot less connected to the poetry alluding to Gondal and its characters. Nevertheless there were some absolutely beautiful poems in the collection and Brontë is a master in writing dark, cold poetry.
May 5, 2018
In honor of National Poetry Month, I decided to read a collection from Emily Bronte! I luuuuuurve WUTHERING HEIGHTS, and so many of the verses in here give me the same, visceral feelings. In fact, I don't think I've ever connected as deeply with poetry before.
It wasn't exactly an even experience. Some of the poetry about feelings was a bit to esoteric, and the Gondal poetry was a little reductive. I get it, romantic medieval world with kings and queens pining over lost wars and loves they won't see again. :P It did kind of make me wish to read prose-style pieces about the characters, but I'm not sure that Emily and Anne did any of that. I guess I do want to look into Gondal more closely. But at the end of the day, I think it was more special to the girls than it would be to the rest of us. Not that I know anything about being completely obsessed with my personal fantasy worlds. *awkward whistling*
But back to the poetry I actually loved! Starting with the very first one--I felt so sure that "High Waving Heather" was included in the recent BBC Bronte sisters dramatization, though sources online say that it was Emily's poem, "The Prisoner," which wasn't included here. Still--guuuuh---the intensity of this imagery! Perhaps I'm biased by my memory of the actress reading this, if she did, but I FEEL the passion--"High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending/midnight and moonlight and bright burning stars/darkness and glory and rejoicing blending/Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending/Man's spirit away from it's drear dungeon sending/BURSTING the fetters and BREAKING the bars!" THE BEAT! Okay, and I capitalized those final words on my own. :P But these are Emily's moors--those wild moors that she loved!
This visceral, natural imagery continues a couple of poems later in "How Still, How Happy!" for every season, from "the withered grass/spring's budding wreaths" to the final stanza: "Yet my heart loves December's smile/As much as July's golden beam/Then let us sit and watch the while/The blue ice curdling on the stream."
Her poem, "Stars," seems to be unusual in how it prizes night over day, and how the narrator sees the sun as stealing her power--"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!" The moon is perhaps trustworthy in her clarity, even even when she's hurtful in "How Clear She Shines"--"Thy griefs may wound--thy wrongs may tear/But oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile!/While gazing at the stars that glow/Above me in that stormless sea/I long to hope that all the woe/Creation knows, is held in thee!"
In the children's parable, "Tell Me Tell Me," she relates the past not only to autumn but to an autumn *evening,* the present to "a flowery spray" in spring, and the future as the sea in summer "stretching into infinity." I love that idea of vastness and movement.
There was one esoteric, "feelings" poem that caught my eye for a variety of reasons. In THE BRONTE MYTH, Lucasta Miller talked about how people erroneously point to "No Coward's Soul is Mine" as Emily's final written work. In the BBC miniseries, they posit that she wrote the poem for her sister, Anne, to soothe her sense of religious guilt: "Vain are the thousand creeds/That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,/Worthless as withered weeds,/Or idlest froth amidst the boundless main/To waken doubt in one/Holding so fast by they infinity." I, personally, took comfort in the last stanza after my cat died (Emily, by many accounts, preferred dogs to people, so maybe she'd understand.) "There is no 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."
I also analyzed her poem, "All Day I Toiled" here on my blog, yanno, self-promotion. :P https://blog.rachelmauro.net/2018/04/... And I read two more on my BookTube blog, though I don't think that I did them justice. We may not know much about Emily Bronte as a person, but man. Her passion lives on!
It wasn't exactly an even experience. Some of the poetry about feelings was a bit to esoteric, and the Gondal poetry was a little reductive. I get it, romantic medieval world with kings and queens pining over lost wars and loves they won't see again. :P It did kind of make me wish to read prose-style pieces about the characters, but I'm not sure that Emily and Anne did any of that. I guess I do want to look into Gondal more closely. But at the end of the day, I think it was more special to the girls than it would be to the rest of us. Not that I know anything about being completely obsessed with my personal fantasy worlds. *awkward whistling*
But back to the poetry I actually loved! Starting with the very first one--I felt so sure that "High Waving Heather" was included in the recent BBC Bronte sisters dramatization, though sources online say that it was Emily's poem, "The Prisoner," which wasn't included here. Still--guuuuh---the intensity of this imagery! Perhaps I'm biased by my memory of the actress reading this, if she did, but I FEEL the passion--"High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending/midnight and moonlight and bright burning stars/darkness and glory and rejoicing blending/Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending/Man's spirit away from it's drear dungeon sending/BURSTING the fetters and BREAKING the bars!" THE BEAT! Okay, and I capitalized those final words on my own. :P But these are Emily's moors--those wild moors that she loved!
This visceral, natural imagery continues a couple of poems later in "How Still, How Happy!" for every season, from "the withered grass/spring's budding wreaths" to the final stanza: "Yet my heart loves December's smile/As much as July's golden beam/Then let us sit and watch the while/The blue ice curdling on the stream."
Her poem, "Stars," seems to be unusual in how it prizes night over day, and how the narrator sees the sun as stealing her power--"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!" The moon is perhaps trustworthy in her clarity, even even when she's hurtful in "How Clear She Shines"--"Thy griefs may wound--thy wrongs may tear/But oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile!/While gazing at the stars that glow/Above me in that stormless sea/I long to hope that all the woe/Creation knows, is held in thee!"
In the children's parable, "Tell Me Tell Me," she relates the past not only to autumn but to an autumn *evening,* the present to "a flowery spray" in spring, and the future as the sea in summer "stretching into infinity." I love that idea of vastness and movement.
There was one esoteric, "feelings" poem that caught my eye for a variety of reasons. In THE BRONTE MYTH, Lucasta Miller talked about how people erroneously point to "No Coward's Soul is Mine" as Emily's final written work. In the BBC miniseries, they posit that she wrote the poem for her sister, Anne, to soothe her sense of religious guilt: "Vain are the thousand creeds/That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,/Worthless as withered weeds,/Or idlest froth amidst the boundless main/To waken doubt in one/Holding so fast by they infinity." I, personally, took comfort in the last stanza after my cat died (Emily, by many accounts, preferred dogs to people, so maybe she'd understand.) "There is no 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."
I also analyzed her poem, "All Day I Toiled" here on my blog, yanno, self-promotion. :P https://blog.rachelmauro.net/2018/04/... And I read two more on my BookTube blog, though I don't think that I did them justice. We may not know much about Emily Bronte as a person, but man. Her passion lives on!
July 30, 2023
4.5/5 ⭐️s. Loved this collection of poems. It doesn’t include all of her poems (I have her complete collection in another edition), but this edition includes a good mix of what seems to be her autobiographical poems and those written for the Gondal saga that she wrote with her sister Anne.
My favorite poems are ‘High waving heather,’ ‘Tell me Tell me,’ ‘What use is it to slumber here?’, ‘May flowers are opening,’ ‘O Dream, where art thou now?,’ ‘The Old Stoic,’ ‘Song by Julius Angora,’ ‘A thousand sounds of happiness,’ ‘M.G. for the U.S.,’ and ‘There shines the moon.’
My favorite poems are ‘High waving heather,’ ‘Tell me Tell me,’ ‘What use is it to slumber here?’, ‘May flowers are opening,’ ‘O Dream, where art thou now?,’ ‘The Old Stoic,’ ‘Song by Julius Angora,’ ‘A thousand sounds of happiness,’ ‘M.G. for the U.S.,’ and ‘There shines the moon.’
April 29, 2017
It would be easy to make fun of Emily Bronte but I think she never made fun of any-thing.
There is a great deal of Emily Bronte in this book, there is enough, and perhaps a little more than enough. She certainly knows what she likes and what she likes is gloom, storms, cemeteries, heather, moonlight, starlight, loneliness, the imagination, air and darkness.
It would be fair to name her the true Queen of Air and Darkness, her great romance was with the night (no other lover could be passionate or powerful enough), and she only cheated on darkness with the imagination. Fancy is almost like a shadow incubus of the mind for Emily, in 'The Night is Darkening Round Me' she shows us imagination as monster, seeker, predator, and that is sometimes what it is like to have too deep a relationship with your own imagination. It is a power but it is not entirely yours. It gives but will not leave. It moves in under the bed.
Her relationships with these things were closer than with any person named within her work. I think the only poem I could find that might be describing a happy real-life social situation was Through The Hours Of Yesternight on page 124;
"Hall and gallery blazed with light
Every lamp its lustre showered
On the adorer and the adored
None were sad that entered there
All were loved and all were fair"
And I think that's it for Emily and parties.
In measured life, this may not be true, but in the products of here mind, her thought was like a beam of lamp light facing out into the darkness, away from the social world, away from the world of human life. It's a love letter to the night and a signal on a sea of gloom.
She's goth as fuck. The intensity and slightly frightening ego-centrism of loneliness shows us pretty clearly why Bramwell bought it. If he was anything like his sister, then her combination of obsession, drive, passion, unrestricted idealisation of the world and a complete intolerance for its mediocrities and imperfections, with some extra testosterone behind it, well you can see that kind of person being a big godammn problem for themselves and for everyone around them too. Perhaps Emily was fortunate to be born a woman, a man with her soul would have blown up the moon.
"While princes hang upon his breath
And nations round are fearing
Close by his side a daggered death
With sheathless point stands sneering."
Gondal interests me as a nerd and as a display of Emilys interior life. A kingdom created purely to be ruined, where kingdoms are always falling and love exists to be betrayed, a heroic clasp to hold the unheroic gems of tyranny, treason, cowardice and weakness. Monsters named and solidified like beast breathed from witches broth.
Did she ever actually fall in love with anyone? I suppose I'll have to check a biography, my guess is no.
Surely some storygamer or nerd would have brought out a Gondal sourcebook by now? It seems mad that it's been ignored. Emily would probably have enjoyed some kind of Apocalypse World hack.
I like both her line and her subject;
"The birds that now so blithely sing,
Through deserts, frozen dry
Poor spectres of the perished spring,
In famished troops, will fly."
Poor spectres of the perished spring if fucking good Emily. I like her euphony and her apparent simplicity, she is, in every respect a mirror to my desire but I have drunk enough darkling wine for now. The book is well-marked, I count 25 corners turned for later viewing, which is one preferred poem every ten pages, a pretty good record so far.
"Now trust a heart that trusts in you
And firmly say the word adieu
Be sure wherever I may roam
My heart is with your heart at home."
There is a great deal of Emily Bronte in this book, there is enough, and perhaps a little more than enough. She certainly knows what she likes and what she likes is gloom, storms, cemeteries, heather, moonlight, starlight, loneliness, the imagination, air and darkness.
It would be fair to name her the true Queen of Air and Darkness, her great romance was with the night (no other lover could be passionate or powerful enough), and she only cheated on darkness with the imagination. Fancy is almost like a shadow incubus of the mind for Emily, in 'The Night is Darkening Round Me' she shows us imagination as monster, seeker, predator, and that is sometimes what it is like to have too deep a relationship with your own imagination. It is a power but it is not entirely yours. It gives but will not leave. It moves in under the bed.
Her relationships with these things were closer than with any person named within her work. I think the only poem I could find that might be describing a happy real-life social situation was Through The Hours Of Yesternight on page 124;
"Hall and gallery blazed with light
Every lamp its lustre showered
On the adorer and the adored
None were sad that entered there
All were loved and all were fair"
And I think that's it for Emily and parties.
In measured life, this may not be true, but in the products of here mind, her thought was like a beam of lamp light facing out into the darkness, away from the social world, away from the world of human life. It's a love letter to the night and a signal on a sea of gloom.
She's goth as fuck. The intensity and slightly frightening ego-centrism of loneliness shows us pretty clearly why Bramwell bought it. If he was anything like his sister, then her combination of obsession, drive, passion, unrestricted idealisation of the world and a complete intolerance for its mediocrities and imperfections, with some extra testosterone behind it, well you can see that kind of person being a big godammn problem for themselves and for everyone around them too. Perhaps Emily was fortunate to be born a woman, a man with her soul would have blown up the moon.
"While princes hang upon his breath
And nations round are fearing
Close by his side a daggered death
With sheathless point stands sneering."
Gondal interests me as a nerd and as a display of Emilys interior life. A kingdom created purely to be ruined, where kingdoms are always falling and love exists to be betrayed, a heroic clasp to hold the unheroic gems of tyranny, treason, cowardice and weakness. Monsters named and solidified like beast breathed from witches broth.
Did she ever actually fall in love with anyone? I suppose I'll have to check a biography, my guess is no.
Surely some storygamer or nerd would have brought out a Gondal sourcebook by now? It seems mad that it's been ignored. Emily would probably have enjoyed some kind of Apocalypse World hack.
I like both her line and her subject;
"The birds that now so blithely sing,
Through deserts, frozen dry
Poor spectres of the perished spring,
In famished troops, will fly."
Poor spectres of the perished spring if fucking good Emily. I like her euphony and her apparent simplicity, she is, in every respect a mirror to my desire but I have drunk enough darkling wine for now. The book is well-marked, I count 25 corners turned for later viewing, which is one preferred poem every ten pages, a pretty good record so far.
"Now trust a heart that trusts in you
And firmly say the word adieu
Be sure wherever I may roam
My heart is with your heart at home."
April 22, 2023
I loved the nature and moody aspects. I also loved this unedited version! It made it feel more real and raw. I wish I did more research before about the imaginative worlds she wrote about as I feel like I missed a chunk.
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
September 23, 2023
emily you will always be mother to me
February 10, 2023
Emily Brontë was a genius poet.
November 11, 2019
I generally read these poems in batches of five or six. She strikes me as a poet of solitude. The joy and sadness she took in the moors, the sea, and the seasons, and her acceptance of loneliness, touched me. There was little self-pity and much striving toward self-awareness and sometimes even self-appreciation. What self-pity there was seemed to be on the part of the poem's speaker and mocked by the poet. But that may just be me bringing my own bugaboos to the text. I'm glad I read this body of work. Much of it was unfinished, which made me feel like I was looking into the workings of a strange and wonderful mind. It is not a style of poetry that I admire, but there were many moments to admire nevertheless.
February 23, 2018
Why did it take me so many years of loving Wuthering Heights before I finally took up Emily Bronte's poetry? The same vehemence and melancholy that make the novel so haunting imbue these poems as well. Many are part of the Gondal fantasy world she created with her sister Anne. A little research to learn the plot (as it's known) may make those a bit more comprehensible, but they're still effective independently.
July 15, 2007
I really enjoyed this. Her writing is so musical. Also very sort of mysterious--I feel like I'm out in the misty moors reading this stuff. I recommend this for anyone who writes lyrics for sure, plus fans of the Brontes.
July 26, 2020
This is an excellent collection with, I believe, most of Emily Bronte's poetry included by Washington as the editor*. I have a love hate relationship with poetry, every now and again I find a poem I adore for it's beauty and power, but nine times out of ten I find poetry dull, probably because I've been unable to perfect the art of finding the correct rhythm to read poetry. When someone reads it to me, properly, I can truly appreciate the artistry that goes into a brilliant poem, but on my own they end up being bland and remind me far too much of English lessons at school...
Saying this, there are a few poems in here that took my breath away with how much feeling they displayed! Some of the more gritty and even bleak poems reminded me of the sheer weight of emotion and power that fills the pages of Wuthering Heights! I absolutely adored these and have marked them to go back and read them time and time again. It's astounding how much some of these poems are evocative of Wuthering Heights to me (particularly when I'd much rather read a novel...) They're full of passion, emotion, and an untameable wildness that I cannot help but adore.
However, most of the time I really couldn't care less, and unfortunately the vast majority of the poems in here came under that category... For example, I'm sorry Emily but personally I don't care enough about bluebells to enjoy those particular poems... Even if the bluebells are meant to symbolise something else (and I'm not good enough with poetry, nor have I spent enough time with these poems to work out whether they are or not) I'm just not a fan.
Bronte is a magnificent poet and when she captures an emotion it's so vibrant and visceral that I can feel it through a medium I generally don't like. Her poetry is well worth reading and I would highly recommend giving them a go if you've read and loved Wuthering Heights!
*I should note I haven't read every poem in this collection, I have an unfortunate habit of skipping poems if the first verse doesn't work for me...
Saying this, there are a few poems in here that took my breath away with how much feeling they displayed! Some of the more gritty and even bleak poems reminded me of the sheer weight of emotion and power that fills the pages of Wuthering Heights! I absolutely adored these and have marked them to go back and read them time and time again. It's astounding how much some of these poems are evocative of Wuthering Heights to me (particularly when I'd much rather read a novel...) They're full of passion, emotion, and an untameable wildness that I cannot help but adore.
However, most of the time I really couldn't care less, and unfortunately the vast majority of the poems in here came under that category... For example, I'm sorry Emily but personally I don't care enough about bluebells to enjoy those particular poems... Even if the bluebells are meant to symbolise something else (and I'm not good enough with poetry, nor have I spent enough time with these poems to work out whether they are or not) I'm just not a fan.
Bronte is a magnificent poet and when she captures an emotion it's so vibrant and visceral that I can feel it through a medium I generally don't like. Her poetry is well worth reading and I would highly recommend giving them a go if you've read and loved Wuthering Heights!
*I should note I haven't read every poem in this collection, I have an unfortunate habit of skipping poems if the first verse doesn't work for me...
February 25, 2022
Here is a wonderful selection of Emily's poems, which were unknown to me when I had to read Wuthering Heights in my high school English class. I'm totally captivated by the amazing, sophisticated poetry -- and the stellar perceptions -- of this erudite Bronte sister, and I look forward to discovering more of her poetry as time goes by.
Very highly recommended anthology! Excerpts of Emily's poetry will be appearing on my blog, https://rhcfortnightlyquotemail.blogs..., during the month of March -- be sure to watch for them!
Very highly recommended anthology! Excerpts of Emily's poetry will be appearing on my blog, https://rhcfortnightlyquotemail.blogs..., during the month of March -- be sure to watch for them!
November 18, 2022
3.5 stars.
Would I have rather read another novel written by Emily Brontë than this little poetry collection? Yes.
Is this poetry collection necessary reading for hardcore Emily fans? Sure. For people who enjoyed Wuthering Heights but aren't into poetry? No!
Do you recommend: (A) reading the poems in succession in a short period of time, or (B) at random throughout your life? Option B.
Were the poems beautifully written? Yes. Engaging and interesting? The first half of the collection, yes. Were these poems morbid as hell and great for reading out at funerals? Yes!
Would I have rather read another novel written by Emily Brontë than this little poetry collection? Yes.
Is this poetry collection necessary reading for hardcore Emily fans? Sure. For people who enjoyed Wuthering Heights but aren't into poetry? No!
Do you recommend: (A) reading the poems in succession in a short period of time, or (B) at random throughout your life? Option B.
Were the poems beautifully written? Yes. Engaging and interesting? The first half of the collection, yes. Were these poems morbid as hell and great for reading out at funerals? Yes!
November 4, 2023
HARP OF WILD AND DREAM LIKE STRAIN
Harp of wild and dream like strain
when I touch thy strings
why dost thou repeat again
long forgotten things?
Harp in other earlier days
I could sing to thee
and not one of all my lays
vexed my memory
But now if I awake a note
that gave me joy before
sounds of sorrow from thee float
changing evermore
Yet still steeped in memory’s dyes
they come sailing on
darkening all my summer skies
shutting out my sun
Harp of wild and dream like strain
when I touch thy strings
why dost thou repeat again
long forgotten things?
Harp in other earlier days
I could sing to thee
and not one of all my lays
vexed my memory
But now if I awake a note
that gave me joy before
sounds of sorrow from thee float
changing evermore
Yet still steeped in memory’s dyes
they come sailing on
darkening all my summer skies
shutting out my sun
May 7, 2023
I marked 16 of the poems as lovely or important. My favorite was Stars: Ah! why, because the dazzling sun. The color and size of this little collection is LOVELY. It's physically one of my very favorite books ever to hold and read. Sad that Emily didn't live longer.
Read
August 31, 2025I feel like I "get" Emily in a way that feels very personal but also is obviously fairly universal, since she is one of the most famous writers ever. I loved this collection of poems and enjoyed spending time each day reading them.
September 18, 2020
i really likes it but it is not an easy read kinda feel like i need to read it multiple times to completely understand every poem
February 11, 2021
Sometimes difficult. Frequently haunting. Often beautiful.
Read
January 21, 2023The Gondal poems were my favorites
March 28, 2023
It’s so interesting to see how many ideas in Wuthering Heights are echoed years before in her exquisite verses.
April 6, 2024
I read the poetry of Emily Bronte alongside Wuthering Heights. It was a good companion to understand more about her and her writing.
May 31, 2024
“but its words died upon my tongue.”
September 27, 2025
Anne is my favourite
November 5, 2025
Beautifully written
April 14, 2022
"Men knelt to God and worshipped crime."
READ 2022
It is a crime that I didn't know about Emily Brontë's poetry before this year. A CRIME. Most of the poems were absolutely gorgeous. Most of them were also extremely dark, somber and beautiful in their imagery. I would recommend her poetry to anyone who lives and breathes, and probably to the ones who are dead too.
I find it interesting which pieces of poetry stick with you, because it can be so different for everyone. This poetry felt like it was made only for me. It's funny, because one of the first "real" books I read, was Wuthering Heights when I was ten. (And yes, I read it because it was Bella Swan's favourite book...) It was also when I was around ten years old that I started writing stories myself, and I feel like I have so similar themes to what Emily Brontë has in these poems. She writes of life and death, grief and tears, of heartbreak and love beyond the grave, of heroes dying heroic deaths, of people being left behind. She writes of flowers, of the rain and the sun, and how hope can survive even in the darkest of times.
Several of the poems in this collection are about an imaginary place called "Gondal". Apparently, it was a fantasy story that she and her sister Anne made up along the years when they grew up together. I had no idea about it, prior to reading this, so it was really interesting to look up Gondal and learn more about it. First, I present to you my top three favourite poems, and a gorgeous piece of lyrical poetry from each of them.
1. MAY FLOWERS ARE OPENING
2. PLEAD FOR ME
3. WHY ASK TO KNOW THE DATE - THE CLIME?
Now, here I present to you some other of my favourite lines from her other poems!
READ 2022
It is a crime that I didn't know about Emily Brontë's poetry before this year. A CRIME. Most of the poems were absolutely gorgeous. Most of them were also extremely dark, somber and beautiful in their imagery. I would recommend her poetry to anyone who lives and breathes, and probably to the ones who are dead too.
I find it interesting which pieces of poetry stick with you, because it can be so different for everyone. This poetry felt like it was made only for me. It's funny, because one of the first "real" books I read, was Wuthering Heights when I was ten. (And yes, I read it because it was Bella Swan's favourite book...) It was also when I was around ten years old that I started writing stories myself, and I feel like I have so similar themes to what Emily Brontë has in these poems. She writes of life and death, grief and tears, of heartbreak and love beyond the grave, of heroes dying heroic deaths, of people being left behind. She writes of flowers, of the rain and the sun, and how hope can survive even in the darkest of times.
Several of the poems in this collection are about an imaginary place called "Gondal". Apparently, it was a fantasy story that she and her sister Anne made up along the years when they grew up together. I had no idea about it, prior to reading this, so it was really interesting to look up Gondal and learn more about it. First, I present to you my top three favourite poems, and a gorgeous piece of lyrical poetry from each of them.
1. MAY FLOWERS ARE OPENING
O - cold cold is my heart
It will not cannot rise
It feels no sympathy
With those refulgent skies
2. PLEAD FOR ME
No, radiant angel, speak and say,
Why did I cast the world away.
*
But, careless gifts are seldom prized,
And mine were worthily despised.
3. WHY ASK TO KNOW THE DATE - THE CLIME?
By force I learnt - what power had I
To say the conquered should not die?
What heart, one trembling foe to save
When hundreds daily filled the grave?
Now, here I present to you some other of my favourite lines from her other poems!
Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;
Oh, night and stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light,
That does not warm, but burn.
* * *
Glad I bloom and calm I fade
Weeping twilight dews my bed
* * *
Though Earth and moon were gone
And suns and universe ceased to be
And thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee
* * *
I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never used a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born
* * *
Scentless are your petals
Your dew as cold as snow.
August 17, 2018
I picked this up at a fantastic used book shop in Connecticut (The Book Barn in Nantiac). I am a fan of Wuthering Heights and a big poetry reader as well, so I figured it was worth the price of admission. While I feel I "got my money's worth", I was not as taken with these poems as I thought I would be. Perhaps since they were posthumously put together with unfinished and unedited poems lumped in, there wasn't a good sense from the work as a whole. I did very much enjoy "A Little While, A Little While" (pp. 60-62).
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