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    Poems of Charlotte Bronte, a Classic Collection Book
    Poems of Charlotte Bronte, a Classic Collection Book
    Poems of Charlotte Bronte, a Classic Collection Book
    Ebook117 pages40 minutes

    Poems of Charlotte Bronte, a Classic Collection Book

    By Debbie Brewer

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    About this ebook

    Charlotte Bronte, (1816 - 1855), was an English novelist and poet. She was born in Yorkshire and was the eldest of four surviving siblings, Anne, Branwell, and Emily. She is known best for her novels, 'Jane Eyre', 'Villette', 'The Professor' and 'Shirley', all considered to be classics of English literature. Publishing under the names of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, Charlotte, Emily and Anne wrote powerful and passionate poetry. This collection of poems by Charlotte reflects her depth of passion for human presence and emotion. Her talent for the manipulation of language shines through her creation of wonderful poems such as 'The Garden', 'The Teacher's Monologue', 'Mementos' and many more. Immerse yourself in this timeless collection of imaginative flowing poetry, and lose yourself in the thoughts and emotions they'll inevitably provoke.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu.com
    Release dateAug 20, 2019
    ISBN9780244811587
    Poems of Charlotte Bronte, a Classic Collection Book

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      Book preview

      Poems of Charlotte Bronte, a Classic Collection Book - Debbie Brewer

      Poems of Charlotte Bronte, a Classic Collection Book

      Poems of Charlotte Bronte, A Classic Collection Book

      Edited by

      Debbie Brewer

      Cover Portrait Artwork by George Richmond (1850)

      Copyright © 2019 Debbie Brewer

      First published in September 2019 by Lulu.com

      Distributed by Lulu.com

      All names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

      ISBN-13: 978-0-244-81158-7

      First Edition

      Poems

      Apostasy

      Evening Solace

      Frances

      Gilbert

      Life

      Mementos

      On The Death Of Anne Bronte

      Parting

      Passion

      Pilate’s Wife’s Dream

      Pleasure

      Preference

      Presentiment

      Regret

      Speak Of The North! A Lonely Moor

      Stanzas

      The Letter

      The Missionary

      The Teacher’s Monologue

      The Wife’s Will

      The Wood

      Winter Stores

      Apostasy

      THIS last denial of my faith, 

      Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard; 

      And, though upon my bed of death,

      I call not back a word.

      Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,­

      Thy sightless saint of stone; 

      She cannot, from this burning breast,

      Wring one repentant moan.

      Thou say'st, that when a sinless child, 

      I duly bent the knee,

      And prayed to what in marble smiled 

      Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.

      I did. But listen! Children spring 

      Full soon to riper youth;

      And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring, 

      I sold my early truth.

      'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine, 

      Bent o'er me, when I said,

      "That land and God and Faith are mine, 

      For which thy fathers bled."

      I see thee not, my eyes are dim; 

      But, well I hear thee say,

      "O daughter, cease to think of him 

      Who led thy soul astray.

      Between you lies both space and time; 

      Let leagues and years prevail

      To turn thee from the path of crime, 

      Back to the Church's pale."

      And, did I need that thou shouldst tell 

      What mighty barriers rise

      To part me from that dungeon-cell, 

      Where my loved Walter lies?

      And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt 

      My dying hour at last,

      By bidding this worn spirit pant 

      No more for what is past? 

      Priest ­must I cease to think of him?

      How hollow rings that word!

      Can time, can tears, can distance dim

      The memory of my lord?

      I said before, I saw not thee,

      Because, an hour agone,

      Over my eye-balls, heavily,

      The lids fell down like stone.

      But still my spirit's inward sight

      Beholds his image beam

      As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,

      As some red planet's gleam.

      Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,

      Tell not thy beads for me;

      Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,

      As dews upon the sea.

      Speak not one word of Heaven above,

      Rave not of Hell's alarms;

      Give me but back my Walter's love,

      Restore me to his arms!

      Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;

      Then will Hell shrink away,

      As I have seen night's terrors shun

      The conquering steps of day.

      'Tis my religion thus to love,

      My creed thus fixed to be;

      Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break

      My rock-like constancy!

      Now go; for at the door there waits 

      Another stranger guest:

      He calls ­I come­ my pulse scarce beats, 

      My heart fails in my breast.

      Again that voice­ how far away, 

      How dreary sounds that tone!

      And I, methinks, am gone astray 

      In trackless wastes and lone.

      I fain would rest a little while:

      Where can I find a stay,

      Till dawn upon the hills shall smile,

      And show some trodden way?

      I come! I come! in haste she said,

      'Twas Walter's voice I heard!

      Then up she sprang­ but fell back, dead, 

      His name her latest word.

      Evening Solace

      THE human heart has hidden treasures, 

      In secret kept, in silence sealed;­ 

      The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, 

      Whose charms were

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