Poems List

Mild the mist upon the hill

Mild the mist upon the hill

Mild the mist upon the hill
Telling not of storms tomorrow;
No, the day has wept its fill,
Spent its store of silent sorrow.


O, I'm gone back to the days of youth,
I am a child once more,
And 'neath my father's sheltering roof
And near the old hall door


I watch this cloudy evening fall
After a day of rain;
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall
The horizon's mountain chain.


The damp stands on the long green grass
As thick as morning's tears,
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass
That breathe of other years.
1,241

My Comforter

My Comforter

Well hast thou spoken, and yet, not taught
A feeling strange or new;
Thou hast but roused a latent thought,
A cloud-closed beam of sunshine, brought
To gleam in open view.


Deep down, concealed within my soul,
That light lies hid from men;
Yet, glows unquenched - though shadows roll,
Its gentle ray cannot control,
About the sullen den.


Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways
To walk alone so long?
Around me, wretches uttering praise,
Or howling o'er their hopeless days,
And each with Frenzy's tongue; -


A brotherhood of misery,
Their smiles as sad as sighs;
Whose madness daily maddened me,
Distorting into agony
The bliss before my eyes!


So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun,
And in the glare of Hell;
My spirit drank a mingled tone,
Of seraph's song, and demon's moan;
What my soul bore, my soul alone
Within itself may tell!


Like a soft air, above a sea,
Tossed by the tempest's stir;
A thaw-wind, melting quietly
The snow-drift, on some wintry lea;
No: what sweet thing resembles thee,
My thoughtful Comforter?


And yet a little longer speak,
Calm this resentful mood;
And while the savage heart grows meek,
For other token do not seek,
But let the tear upon my cheek
Evince my gratitude!
236

Loud Without the Wind Was Roaring

Loud Without the Wind Was Roaring

Loud without the wind was roaring
Through th' autumnal sky;

Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,
Spoke of winter nigh.
All too like that dreary eve,
Did my exiled spirit grieve.

Grieved at first, but grieved not long,
Sweet—how softly sweet!—it came;

Wild words of an ancient song,
Undefined, without a name.

'It was spring, and the skylark was singing';
Those words they awakened a spell;

They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,
Nor absence, nor distance can quell.

In the gloom of a cloudy November
They uttered the music of May;

They kindled the perishing ember
Into fervour that could not decay.

Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,
West-wind, in thy glory and pride!
Oh! call me from valley and lowland,
To walk by the hill-torrent's side!


It is swelled with the first snowy weather;
The rocks they are icy and hoar,

And sullenly waves the long heather,
And the fern leaves are sunny no more.

There are no yellow stars on the mountain
The bluebells have long died away

From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain—
From the side of the wintry brae.

But lovelier than corn-fields all waving
In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,

Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,
And the crags where I wandered of old.

It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;
How sweetly it brought back to me

The time when nor labour nor dreaming
Broke the sleep of the happy and free!

But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven
Was melting to amber and blue,

And swift were the wings to our feet given,
As we traversed the meadows of dew.


For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass
Like velvet beneath us should lie!
For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass
Rose sunny against the clear sky!

For the moors, where the linnet was trilling
Its song on the old granite stone;
Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling
Every breast with delight like its own!

What language can utter the feeling
Which rose, when in exile afar,
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,
I saw the brown heath growing there?

It was scattered and stunted, and told me
That soon even that would be gone:
It whispered, 'The grim walls enfold me,
I have bloomed in my last summer's sun.'

But not the loved music, whose waking
Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,
Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking
Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.

The spirit which bent 'neath its power,
How it longed—how it burned to be free!
If I could have wept in that hour,
Those tears had been heaven to me.

Well—well; the sad minutes are moving,
Though loaded with trouble and pain;
And some time the loved and the loving


Shall meet on the mountains again!
384

If grief for grief can touch thee

If grief for grief can touch thee

If grief for grief can touch thee,
If answering woe for woe,
If any truth can melt thee
Come to me now!


I cannot be more lonely,
More drear I cannot be!
My worn heart beats so wildly
'Twill break for thee--


And when the world despises--
When Heaven repels my prayer--
Will not mine angel comfort?
Mine idol hear?


Yes, by the tears I'm poured,
By all my hours of pain
O I shall surely win thee,
Beloved, again!
150

I Am the Only Being Whose Doom

I Am the Only Being Whose Doom

I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born

In secret pleasure - secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away
As friendless after eighteen years
As lone as on my natal day

There have been times I cannot hide
There have been times when this was drear
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here

But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were

First melted off the hope of youth
Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew

'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere -
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there
190

How Clear She Shines

How Clear She Shines

How clear she shines! How quietly
I lie beneath her guardian light;
While heaven and earth are whispering me,
" Tomorrow, wake, but, dream to-night."
Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love!
These throbbing temples softly kiss;
And bend my lonely couch above
And bring me rest, and bring me bliss.


The world is going; dark world, adieu!
Grim world, conceal thee till the day;
The heart, thou canst not all subdue,
Must still resist, if thou delay!


Thy love I will not, will not share;
Thy hatred only wakes a smile;
Thy griefs may wound - thy wrongs may tear,
But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile!
While gazing on the stars that glow
Above me, in that stormless sea,
I long to hope that all the woe
Creation knows, is held in thee!


And, this shall be my dream to-night;
I'll think the heaven of glorious spheres
Is rolling on its course of light
In endless bliss, through endless years;
I'll think, there's not one world above,
Far as these straining eyes can see,
Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love,
Or Virtue crouched to Infamy;


Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate,
The mangled wretch was forced to smile;
To match his patience 'gainst her hate,
His heart rebellious all the while.
Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong,
And helpless Reason warn in vain;
And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong;
And Joy the surest path to Pain;
And Peace, the lethargy of Grief;
And Hope, a phantom of the soul;
And Life, a labour, void and brief;
And Death, the despot of the whole!
199

High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending

High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending

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.


All down the mountain sides wild forests lending
One mighty voice to the life-giving wind,
Rivers their banks in their jubilee rending,
Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,
Wider and deeper their waters extending,
Leaving a desolate desert behind.


Shining and lowering and swelling and dying,
Changing forever from midnight to noon;
Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,
Shadows on shadows advancing and flying,
Lighning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying,
Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.
249

Hope

Hope


Hope was but a timid friend;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men.


She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars, one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away!


Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping;
If I listened, she would cease.


False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round;


Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!
208

'Fall, leaves, fall'

'Fall, leaves, fall'

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
239

Encouragement

Encouragement


I do not weep; I would not weep;
Our mother needs no tears:

Dry thine eyes, too; 'tis vain to keep
This causeless grief for years.

What though her brow be changed and cold,
Her sweet eyes closed for ever?

What though the stone-the darksome mould
Our mortal bodies sever?

What though her hand smooth ne'er again
Those silken locks of thine?

Nor, through long hours of future pain,
Her kind face o'er thee shine?

Remember still, she is not dead;
She sees us, sister, now;

Laid, where her angel spirit fled,
'Mid heath and frozen snow.

And from that world of heavenly light
Will she not always bend

To guide us in our lifetime's night,
And guard us to the end?

Thou knowest she will; and thou mayst mourn
That we are left below:

But not that she can ne'er return
To share our earthly woe.
219

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Identification and basic context

Emily Jane Brontë was an English novelist and poet. She is primarily known for her powerful and enduring novel, Wuthering Heights. Brontë's family background was steeped in intellectual and artistic pursuits, which significantly shaped her formative years. She wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Born into a literary family, Emily Brontë's childhood was marked by close sibling relationships and a vivid imagination, fueled by the isolated Yorkshire moors. Her formal education was limited, attending Cowan Bridge School briefly and later Roe Head. However, she was a voracious reader and largely self-educated, immersing herself in literature, philosophy, and religious texts. Early influences included the Bible, English Romantic poets, and the works of Shakespeare. The wild, untamed landscape of her homeland profoundly impacted her worldview and artistic sensibilities.

Literary trajectory

Emily Brontë's literary output was concentrated in a relatively short period. She began writing poetry at a young age, collaborating with her siblings on fantastical juvenile works. Her poetry developed a distinct voice, characterized by its raw emotional power and stark imagery. While her primary literary achievement is "Wuthering Heights," her poems were published in "Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell" in 1846, the same year she completed her novel, which was published in 1847. She did not engage significantly in literary criticism or translation.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Emily Brontë's magnum opus is "Wuthering Heights" (1847). Her poetry often explores intense emotions, the spiritual connection with nature, and the darker aspects of the human psyche. Themes include passionate and destructive love, the conflict between civilization and nature, spiritual longing, and mortality. Her style is characterized by its intensity, vivid and often stark imagery, and a direct, powerful emotional expression. She frequently employed dramatic monologues and explored complex psychological states. Her language is potent and evocative, capable of conveying both profound tenderness and savage ferocity. Her innovations lie in her unflinching exploration of passion and her creation of a unique, brooding atmosphere.

Cultural and historical context

Brontë lived during the Victorian era in England, a period of significant social and industrial change, but her work often seems to transcend its immediate time. She belonged to a generation of writers who were exploring new forms of realism and psychological depth. While not overtly political, her work can be seen as a critique of social conventions and the constraints placed upon individuals, particularly women. Her isolated upbringing and limited exposure to literary circles meant her work developed with a unique, independent vision.

Personal life

Emily Brontë was known for her reserved and somewhat reclusive nature. She had deep emotional bonds with her siblings, particularly Anne and Charlotte, and her brother Branwell. Her experiences at Roe Head and her brief, unhappy attempts at teaching and governessing likely contributed to her desire for solitude. She was deeply attached to the moors and found solace and inspiration in nature. Her spiritual and philosophical beliefs were complex and often expressed through her poetry, reflecting a profound, almost pantheistic connection to the natural world.

Recognition and reception

Upon its publication, "Wuthering Heights" received mixed reviews, with some critics finding its passionate intensity and dark themes disturbing. However, it gradually gained recognition for its originality and power. Posthumously, Emily Brontë's reputation grew significantly, and "Wuthering Heights" is now considered a masterpiece of English literature and a major work of the Romantic and Gothic traditions. Her poetry is also appreciated for its emotional depth and distinctive voice.

Influences and legacy

Emily Brontë was influenced by the Bible, Romantic poets like Wordsworth and Coleridge, and Shakespeare. Her novel "Wuthering Heights" has had a profound and lasting impact on literature, influencing countless novelists with its psychological complexity, passionate themes, and atmospheric settings. Her unique exploration of obsessive love and the wild landscape continues to resonate. Her poetry is studied for its intensity and distinct style, contributing to the broader canon of English lyric poetry.

Interpretation and critical analysis

"Wuthering Heights" has been subject to extensive critical interpretation, focusing on themes of social class, revenge, the nature of love (both destructive and redemptive), the duality of human nature, and the symbolic power of the landscape. Critics have debated the novel's classification, placing it within Romanticism, Gothic literature, or even as a precursor to psychological realism. The characters of Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw remain subjects of intense analysis regarding their motivations and their embodiment of primal forces.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite her intense novel, Emily Brontë was a very private person. She was known for her love of dogs and her skill in playing the piano. She reportedly had a stoic attitude towards illness and personal hardship. Her intense connection to the moors meant she found conventional society and social calls tedious. Her early death prevented further literary exploration.

Death and memory

Emily Brontë died in December 1848, at the age of 30, from tuberculosis. Her death came shortly after her brother Branwell's and before her sister Anne's. Her literary legacy is cemented by "Wuthering Heights," which continues to be read, studied, and adapted worldwide, ensuring her enduring memory as a singular voice in English literature.