Views Of Life / Anne Bronte

When sinks my heart in hopeless gloom,

And life can show no joy for me;

And I behold a yawning tomb,

Where bowers and palaces should be;

In vain you talk of morbid dreams;

In vain you gaily smiling say,

That what to me so dreary seems,

The healthy mind deems bright and gay.

Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas / Anne Bronte

In all we do, and hear, and see,

Is restless Toil and Vanity.

While yet the rolling earth abides,

Men come and go like ocean tides;

And ere one generation dies,

Another in its place shall rise;

THAT, sinking soon into the grave,

Others succeed, like wave on wave;

To Cowper / Anne Bronte

Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard;

And oft, in childhood's years,

I've read them o'er and o'er again,

With floods of silent tears.

The language of my inmost heart

I traced in every line;

MY sins, MY sorrows, hopes, and fears,

Were there-and only mine.

The Student's Serenade / Anne Bronte

I have slept upon my couch,

But my spirit did not rest,

For the labours of the day

Yet my weary soul opprest;

And before my dreaming eyes

Still the learned volumes lay,

And I could not close their leaves,

And I could not turn away.

The Penitent / Anne Bronte

I mourn with thee, and yet rejoice

That thou shouldst sorrow so;

With angel choirs I join my voice

To bless the sinner's woe.

Though friends and kindred turn away,

And laugh thy grief to scorn;

I hear the great Redeemer say,

"Blessed are ye that mourn."

The Doubter's Prayer / Anne Bronte

Eternal Power, of earth and air!

Unseen, yet seen in all around,

Remote, but dwelling everywhere,

Though silent, heard in every sound;

If e'er thine ear in mercy bent,

When wretched mortals cried to Thee,

And if, indeed, Thy Son was sent,

To save lost sinners such as me:

The Consolation / Anne Bronte

Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground

With fallen leaves so thickly strown,

And cold the wind that wanders round

With wild and melancholy moan;

There IS a friendly roof, I know,

Might shield me from the wintry blast;

There is a fire, whose ruddy glow

Will cheer me for my wanderings past.

The Captive Dove / Anne Bronte

Poor restless dove, I pity thee;

And when I hear thy plaintive moan,

I mourn for thy captivity,

And in thy woes forget mine own.

To see thee stand prepared to fly,

And flap those useless wings of thine,

And gaze into the distant sky,

Would melt a harder heart than mine.

The Arbour / Anne Bronte

I'll rest me in this sheltered bower,

And look upon the clear blue sky

That smiles upon me through the trees,

Which stand so thick clustering by;

And view their green and glossy leaves,

All glistening in the sunshine fair;

And list the rustling of their boughs,

So softly whispering through the air.

Stanzas / Anne Bronte

Oh, weep not, love! each tear that springs

In those dear eyes of thine,

To me a keener suffering brings

Than if they flowed from mine.

And do not droop! however drear

The fate awaiting thee;

For MY sake combat pain and care,

And cherish life for me!

Self-Congratulation / Anne Bronte

Ellen, you were thoughtless once

Of beauty or of grace,

Simple and homely in attire,

Careless of form and face;

Then whence this change? and wherefore now

So often smoothe your hair?

And wherefore deck your youthful form

With such unwearied care?

Past Days / Anne Bronte

'Tis strange to think there WAS a time

When mirth was not an empty name,

When laughter really cheered the heart,

And frequent smiles unbidden came,

And tears of grief would only flow

In sympathy for others' woe;

When speech expressed the inward thought,

And heart to kindred heart was bare,

And summer days were far too short

For all the pleasures crowded there;

And silence, solitude, and rest,

Now welcome to the weary breast--

Music On Christmas Morning / Anne Bronte

Music I love--but never strain

Could kindle raptures so divine,

So grief assuage, so conquer pain,

And rouse this pensive heart of mine--

As that we hear on Christmas morn,

Upon the wintry breezes borne.

Though Darkness still her empire keep,

And hours must pass, ere morning break;

From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,

That music KINDLY bids us wake:

It calls us, with an angel's voice,

To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

Memory / Anne Bronte

Brightly the sun of summer shone

Green fields and waving woods upon,

And soft winds wandered by;

Above, a sky of purest blue,

Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,

Allured the gazer's eye.

But what were all these charms to me,

When one sweet breath of memory

Came gently wafting by?

I closed my eyes against the day,

And called my willing soul away,

From earth, and air, and sky;

In A Wood On A Windy Day / Anne Bronte

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring

And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;

For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,

Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,

The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;

The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,

The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky

If This Be All / Anne Bronte

O God! if this indeed be all

That Life can show to me;

If on my aching brow may fall

No freshening dew from Thee;

If with no brighter light than this

The lamp of hope may glow,

And I may only dream of bliss,

And wake to weary woe;

Home / Anne Bronte

How brightly glistening in the sun

The woodland ivy plays!

While yonder beeches from their barks

Reflect his silver rays.

That sun surveys a lovely scene

From softly smiling skies;

And wildly through unnumbered trees

The wind of winter sighs:

Fluctuations / Anne Bronte

What though the Sun had left my sky;

To save me from despair

The blessed Moon arose on high,

And shone serenely there.

I watched her, with a tearful gaze,

Rise slowly o'er the hill,

While through the dim horizon's haze

Her light gleamed faint and chill.

Appeal / Anne Bronte

Oh, I am very weary,

Though tears no longer flow;

My eyes are tired of weeping,

My heart is sick of woe;

My life is very lonely

My days pass heavily,

I'm weary of repining;

Wilt thou not come to me?

A Word To The 'Elect' / Anne Bronte

You may rejoice to think YOURSELVES secure;

You may be grateful for the gift divine--

That grace unsought, which made your black hearts pure,

And fits your earth-born souls in Heaven to shine.

But, is it sweet to look around, and view

Thousands excluded from that happiness

Which they deserved, at least, as much as you.--

Their faults not greater, nor their virtues less?