Poems List

Reader, I married him.

Jane Eyre (1847) ch. 38

4

Be a governess! Better be a slave at once!

Shirley (1849) ch. 13

4

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

Jane Eyre (1847), opening words

2

Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.

Jane Eyre (2nd ed., 1848) preface

2

We wove a web in childhood, A web of sunny air.

Retrospection [1846], st. 1

4

The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed.

Evening Solace [1846], st. 1

3

The Wood

The Wood

BUT two miles more, and then we rest !
Well, there is still an hour of day,
And long the brightness of the West

Will light us on our devious way;
Sit then, awhile, here in this woodSo
total is the solitude,

We safely may delay.

These massive roots afford a seat,
Which seems for weary travellers made.
There rest. The air is soft and sweet

In this sequestered forest glade,
And there are scents of flowers around,
The evening dew draws from the ground;

How soothingly they spread !

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart;
Nothat
beats full of sweet content,
For now I have my natural part

Of action with adventure blent;
Cast forth on the wide vorld with thee,
And all my once waste energy

To weighty purpose bent.

Yetsay'st
thou, spies around us roam,
Our aims are termed conspiracy ?
Haply, no more our English home

An anchorage for us may be ?
That there is risk our mutual blood
May redden in some lonely wood

The knife of treachery ?

Say'st thouthat
where we lodge each night,
In each lone farm, or lonelier hall
Of Norman Peerere
morning light

Suspicion must as duly fall,
As day returnssuch
vigilance
Presides and watches over France,

Such rigour governs all ?

I fear not, William; dost thou fear ?
So that the knife does not divide,
It may be ever hovering near:

I could not tremble at thy side,
And strenuous lovelike
mine for theeIs
buckler strong, 'gainst treachery,

And turns its stab aside.

I am resolved that thou shalt learn
To trust my strength as I trust thine;
I am resolved our souls shall burn,
With equal, steady, mingling shine;


Part of the field is conquered now,
Our lives in the same channel flow,
Along the selfsame
line;

And while no groaning storm is heard,
Thou seem'st content it should be so,
But soon as comes a warning word

Of dangerstraight
thine anxious brow
Bends over me a mournful shade,
As doubting if my powers are made

To ford the floods of woe.

Know, then it is my spirit swells,
And drinks, with eager joy, the air
Of freedomwhere
at last it dwells,

Chartered, a common task to share
With thee, and then it stirs alert,
And pants to learn what menaced hurt

Demands for thee its care.

Remember, I have crossed the deep,
And stood with thee on deck, to gaze
On waves that rose in threatening heap,

While stagnant lay a heavy haze,
Dimly confusing sea with sky,
And baffling, even, the pilot's eye,

Intent to thread the maze


Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous coast,
And find a way to steer our band
To the one point obscure, which lost,

Flung us, as victims, on the strand;All,
elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword,
And not a wherry could be moored

Along the guarded land.

I feared not thenI
fear not now;
The interest of each stirring scene
Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow,

In every nerve and bounding vein;
Alike on turbid Channel sea,
Or in still wood of Normandy,

I feel as born again.

The rain descended that wild morn
When, anchoring in the cove at last,
Our band, all weary and forlorn,

Ashore, like waveworn
sailors, castSought
for a sheltering roof in vain,
And scarce could scanty food obtain

To break their morning fast.


Thou didst thy crust with me divide,
Thou didst thy cloak around me fold;
And, sitting silent by thy side,

I ate the bread in peace untold:
Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet
As costly fare or princely treat

On royal plate of gold.

Sharp blew the sleet upon my face,
And, rising wild, the gusty wind
Drove on those thundering waves apace,

Our crew so late had left behind;
But, spite of frozen shower and storm,
So close to thee, my heart beat warm,

And tranquil slept my mind.

So nownor
footsore
nor opprest
With walking all this August day,
I taste a heaven in this brief rest,

This gipsyhalt
beside the way.
England's wild flowers are fair to view,
Like balm is England's summer dew,

Like gold her sunset ray.

But the white violets, growing here,
Are sweeter than I yet have seen,
And ne'er did dew so pure and clear


Distil on forest mosses green,
As now, called forth by summer heat,
Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat


These fragrant limes between.

That sunset ! Look beneath the boughs,
Over the copsebeyond
the hills;
How soft, yet deep and warm it glows,

And heaven with rich suffusion fills;
With hues where still the opal's tint,
Its gleam of poisoned fire is blent,

Where flame through azure thrills !

Depart we nowfor
fast will fade
That solemn splendour of decline,
And deep must be the aftershade


As stars alone tonight
will shine;
No moon is destinedpaleto
gaze
On such a day's vast Phoenix blaze,

A day in fires decayed !

Therehandinhand
we tread again
The mazes of this varying wood,
And soon, amid a cultured plain,
Girt in with fertile solitude,


We shall our restingplace
descry,
Marked by one rooftree,
towering high
Above a farmstead
rude.

Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare,
We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease;
Courage will guard thy heart from fear,

And Love give mine divinest peace:
Tomorrow
brings more dangerous toil,
And through its conflict and turmoil

We'll pass, as God shall please.
257

The Teacher's Monologue

The Teacher's Monologue

THE room is quiet, thoughts alone
People its mute tranquillity;
The yoke put on, the long task done,I
am, as it is bliss to be,
Still and untroubled. Now, I see,
For the first time, how soft the day
O'er waveless water, stirless tree,
Silent and sunny, wings its way.
Now, as I watch that distant hill,
So faint, so blue, so far removed,
Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,
That home where I am known and loved:
It lies beyond; yon azure brow
Parts me from all Earth holds for me;
And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow
Thitherward tending, changelessly.
My happiest hours, aye ! all the time,
I love to keep in memory,
Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime
Decayed to dark anxiety.


Sometimes, I think a narrow heart
Makes me thus mourn those far away,
And keeps my love so far apart
From friends and friendships of today;
Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream
I measure up so jealously,
All the sweet thoughts I live on seem
To vanish into vacancy:
And then, this strange, coarse world around
Seems all that's palpable and true;
And every sight, and every sound,
Combines my spirit to subdue
To aching grief, so void and lone
Is Life and Earthso
worse than vain,
The hopes that, in my own heart sown,
And cherished by such sun and rain
As Joy and transient Sorrow shed,
Have ripened to a harvest there:
Alas ! methinks I hear it said,
'Thy golden sheaves are empty air.'
All fades away; my very home
I think will soon be desolate;
I hear, at times, a warning come
Of bitter partings at its gate;
And, if I should return and see
The hearthfire
quenched, the vacant chair;
And hear it whispered mournfully,
That farewells have been spoken there,
What shall I do, and whither turn ?
Where look for peace ? When cease to mourn ?



'Tis not the air I wished to play,
The strain I wished to sing;

My wilful spirit slipped away
And struck another string.

I neither wanted smile nor tear,
Bright joy nor bitter woe,

But just a song that sweet and clear,
Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace me
When sleep refused to come;

A strain to chase despondency,
When sorrowful for home.

In vain I try; I cannot sing;
All feels so cold and dead;

No wild distress, no gushing spring
Of tears in anguish shed;

But all the impatient gloom of one
Who waits a distant day,

When, some great task of suffering done,
Repose shall toil repay.

For youth departs, and pleasure flies,
And life consumes away,

And youth's rejoicing ardour dies
Beneath this drear delay;

And Patience, weary with her yoke,
Is yielding to despair,

And Health's elastic spring is broke
Beneath the strain of care.

Life will be gone ere I have lived;
Where now is Life's first prime ?

I've worked and studied, longed and grieved,
Through all that rosy time.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,Is
such my future fate ?

The morn was dreary, must the eve
Be also desolate ?

Well, such a life at least makes Death
A welcome, wishedfor
friend;

Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,
To suffer to the end !
260

The Letter

The Letter

WHAT is she writing ? Watch her now,
How fast her fingers move !

How eagerly her youthful brow
Is bent in thought above !

Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,
She puts them quick aside,

Nor knows, that band of crystals bright,
Her hasty touch untied.

It slips adown her silken dress,
Falls glittering at her feet;

Unmarked it falls, for she no less
Pursues her labour sweet.

The very loveliest hour that shines,
Is in that deep blue sky;

The golden sun of June declines,
It has not caught her eye.

The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate,
The white road, far away,

In vain for her light footsteps wait,
She comes not forth today.


There is an open door of glass
Close by that lady's chair,

From thence, to slopes of mossy grass,
Descends a marble stair.

Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom
Around the threshold grow;

Their leaves and blossoms shade the room,
From that sun's deepening glow.

Why does she not a moment glance
Between the clustering flowers,

And mark in heaven the radiant dance
Of evening's rosy hours ?

O look again ! Still fixed her eye,
Unsmiling, earnest, still,

And fast her pen and fingers fly,
Urged by her eager will.

Her soul is in th' absorbing task;
To whom, then, doth she write ?

Nay, watch her still more closely, ask
Her own eyes' serious light;

Where do they turn, as now her pen
Hangs o'er th' unfinished line ?

Whence fell the tearful gleam that then
Did in their dark spheres shine ?

The summerparlour
looks so dark,
When from that sky you turn,

And from th' expanse of that green park,
You scarce may aught discern.


Yet o'er the piles of porcelain rare,
O'er flowerstand,
couch, and vase,
Sloped, as if leaning on the air,
One picture meets the gaze.
'Tis there she turns; you may not see
Distinct, what form defines
The clouded mass of mystery
Yon broad gold frame confines.
But look again; inured to shade
Your eyes now faintly trace
A stalwart form, a massive head,
A firm, determined face.

Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek,
A brow high, broad, and white,
Where every furrow seems to speak
Of mind and moral might.
Is that her god ? I cannot tell;
Her eye a moment met
Th' impending picture, then it fell
Darkened and dimmed and wet.
A moment more, her task is done,
And sealed the letter lies;
And now, towards the setting sun
She turns her tearful eyes.

Those tears flow over, wonder not,
For by the inscription, see
In what a strange and distant spot
Her heart of hearts must be !
Three seas and many a league of land
That letter must pass o'er,
E'er read by him to whose loved hand
'Tis sent from England's shore.
Remote colonial wilds detain
Her husband, loved though stern;
She, 'mid that smiling English scene,
Weeps for his wished return.
237

Speak of the North! A Lonely Moor

Speak of the North! A Lonely Moor

Speak of the North! A lonely moor
Silent and dark and tractless swells,
The waves of some wild streamlet pour
Hurriedly through its ferny dells.


Profoundly still the twilight air,
Lifeless the landscape; so we deem
Till like a phantom gliding near
A stag bends down to drink the stream.


And far away a mountain zone,
A cold, white waste of snowdrifts
lies,
And one star, large and soft and lone,
Silently lights the unclouded skies.
272

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Identification and basic context

Charlotte Brontë was an English novelist and poet, celebrated for her intense and psychologically rich novels. Her most famous work is *Jane Eyre* (1847), a seminal novel in English literature that explored themes of class, gender, morality, and independence. Other notable works include *Shirley* (1849), *Villette* (1853), and *The Professor* (1857, published posthumously). She was born on April 21, 1816, in Thornton, Yorkshire, England, and died on March 31, 1855, in Haworth, Yorkshire, England. She was the third of six children born to Patrick Brontë, an Irish Anglican clergyman, and Maria Branwell Brontë. She wrote in English and her work is deeply rooted in the social and cultural context of Victorian England.

Childhood and education

Charlotte's childhood was marked by tragedy, including the early death of her mother and two elder sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, from illness contracted at the Clergy Daughters' School at Cowan Bridge, which later served as the model for Lowood School in *Jane Eyre*. The family lived in the remote parsonage at Haworth, where Charlotte and her siblings, Emily, Anne, Branwell, and their father, Patrick, created elaborate imaginary worlds. Charlotte received some formal schooling, attending Roe Head school, but her most significant education was self-directed, through extensive reading and writing. Early influences included religious texts, poetry, and contemporary novels, as well as the intense imaginative life she shared with her siblings.

Literary trajectory

Charlotte Brontë's literary career began with poetry, often published collaboratively with her sisters under male pseudonyms. In 1846, she, Emily, and Anne published *Poems*, which received little attention. Her first novel, *The Professor*, was rejected by several publishers before being published posthumously. Her breakthrough came with *Jane Eyre* in 1847, published under the pseudonym Currer Bell. The novel was an immediate success, lauded for its original voice and compelling narrative. She followed this with *Shirley* (1849) and *Villette* (1853), both exploring the lives and challenges of women in Victorian society. Her later years were also dedicated to writing, though her output was limited by ill health and personal circumstances.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Charlotte Brontë's major works, *Jane Eyre*, *Shirley*, and *Villette*, are characterized by their intense psychological realism, gothic elements, and exploration of female subjectivity. Her dominant themes include social inequality, the constraints placed upon women, the search for independence and love, the conflict between reason and passion, and the importance of spiritual integrity. Brontë's style is known for its passionate, often dramatic prose, characterized by vivid imagery and a strong narrative voice. Her protagonists, like Jane Eyre and Lucy Snowe, are intelligent, principled, and resilient women who challenge societal expectations. She often employed first-person narration to convey the inner lives of her characters with compelling immediacy. Her innovations included presenting a complex female character with strong desires and moral convictions, and tackling controversial social issues directly within a gripping narrative.

Cultural and historical context

Brontë lived and wrote during the Victorian era, a period of significant social change, industrialization, and strict moral codes, particularly concerning women's roles and behavior. Her novels reflected and interrogated these societal norms, offering critiques of the limitations imposed on women, the rigid class structure, and the hypocrisy within religious and social institutions. She belonged to a generation of writers grappling with the implications of modernity and the challenges to traditional values. Her work, alongside that of her sisters, contributed to the growing awareness of women's intellectual and emotional lives.

Personal life

Charlotte Brontë's personal life was deeply affected by the death of her siblings and her father's declining health. Her intense family relationships, particularly with her sisters Emily and Anne, were a source of support and inspiration. Her romantic life was complex; she experienced unrequited love and later married Arthur Bell Nicholls, her father's curate, in 1854, shortly before her death. She experienced periods of profound grief and solitude, which undoubtedly fueled the emotional depth of her writing. Her passion for her work was unwavering, even amidst personal hardship.

Recognition and reception

*Jane Eyre* was an immediate success, captivating readers with its unconventional heroine and passionate narrative, though it also generated controversy for its perceived breaches of decorum. Critical reception was largely positive, with many recognizing Brontë's originality and power. She achieved significant fame during her lifetime, a rare feat for a female author of her time. Her works have since become staples of English literature, continuously studied and celebrated for their literary merit and social commentary.

Influences and legacy

Brontë was influenced by Romantic poets such as Wordsworth and Byron, as well as by earlier novelists like Samuel Richardson. Her legacy lies in her powerful portrayal of female consciousness and her contribution to the development of the psychological novel. She inspired countless writers, particularly women, to explore their own experiences and challenge societal norms through literature. Her works remain influential for their emotional honesty, moral complexity, and enduring exploration of the human spirit's struggle for autonomy and love.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Charlotte Brontë's novels have been subject to extensive critical analysis, focusing on themes of feminism, class struggle, religious hypocrisy, and the nature of identity. Critics have explored the psychological depth of her characters, the symbolic significance of settings, and the moral ambiguities present in her narratives. Debates often revolve around the extent to which her work can be considered proto-feminist and the complex relationship between her personal experiences and her fictional creations.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite her literary fame, Charlotte Brontë remained intensely private. She had a deep affection for her home in Haworth and was devoted to her family. Her experiences as a governess, a common profession for middle-class women, provided her with crucial insights into the social dynamics she later depicted in her novels. Her correspondence reveals a keen intellect and a sharp wit.

Death and memory

Charlotte Brontë died at the young age of 38, likely from complications related to early pregnancy, exacerbated by severe morning sickness. Her death was a profound loss to literature. Her works continue to be widely read, adapted for film and television, and studied in academic institutions worldwide, cementing her place as one of England's most significant novelists.