The Poetry Of Charlotte Bronte

By Charlotte Brontë

In the small village of Haworth in Yorkshire the Bronte family created novels and poems that are still admired to this day around the world. The eldest of the three Bronte sisters, Charlotte, was born on 21st April 1816. The author of ‘Jane Eyre’, ‘Shirley’ and ‘Vilette’ she was also a very talented poet as witnessed here in this collection. She died with her unborn child on 31st March 1855.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Copyright Group
• Release date: Jan 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783948048

Charlotte Brontë

Charlotte Brontë (1816–1855) was an English novelist and poet, the eldest of the three Brontë sister authors. Her novels are considered masterpieces of English literature – the most famous of which is Jane Eyre.

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The Poetry Of Charlotte Bronte

In the small village of Haworth in Yorkshire the Bronte family created novels and poems that are still admired to this day around the world. 

The eldest of the three Bronte sisters, Charlotte, was born on 21st April 1816. The author of ‘Jane Eyre’, ‘Shirley’ and ‘Vilette’ she was also a very talented poet as witnessed here in this collection.  She died with her unborn child on 31st March 1855.  

Index Of Poems

He Saw My Heart’s Woe

Apostasy

Evening Solace

Frances

Gilbert

Life

Mementos

On The Death Of Anne Brontë

Parting

On The Death Of Emily Jane Bronte

The Wife’s Will

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 Wood

Winter Stores

From Retrospection

He Saw My Heart’s Woe

He saw my heart’s woe, discovered my soul’s anguish,

How in fever, in thirst, in atrophy it pined;

Knew he could heal, yet looked and let it languish,

To its moans spirit-deaf, to its pangs spirit-blind.

But once a year he heard a whisper low and dreary,        

Appealing for aid, entreating some reply;

Only when sick, soul-worn and torture-weary,

Breathed I that prayer—heard I that sigh.

He was mute as is the grave, he stood stirless as a tower;

At last I looked up, and saw I prayed to stone:        

I asked help of that which to help had no power,

I sought love where love was utterly unknown.

Idolater, I kneeled to an idol cut in rock,

I might have slashed my flesh and drawn my heart’s best blood,

The Granite God had felt no tenderness, no shock;        

My Baal had not seen nor heard nor understood.

In dark remorse I rose. I rose in darker shame,

Self-condemned I withdrew to an exile from my kind;

A solitude I sought where mortal never came,

Hoping in its wilds forgetfulness to find.        

Now, Heaven, heal the wound which I still deeply feel;

Thy glorious hosts look not in scorn on our poor race;

Thy King eternal doth no iron judgement deal

On suffering worms who seek forgiveness, comfort, grace.

He gave our hearts to love, he will not love despise,        

E’en if the gift be lost, as mine was long ago.

He will forgive the fault, will bid the offender rise,

Wash out with dews of bliss the fiery brand of woe;

And give a sheltered place beneath the unsullied throne,

Whence the soul redeemed may mark Time’s fleeting course around earth;        

And know its trial over past, its sufferings gone,

And feel the peril past of Death’s immortal birth.

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? 

Priestmust 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