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
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poem by Emily Brontë from Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë (1850)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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O God of Heaven! The dream of horror
O God of heaven! The dream of horror,
The frightful dream is over now;
The sickened heart, the blasting sorrow,
The ghastly night, the ghastlier morrow,
The aching sense of utter woe.
The burning tears that would keep welling,
The groan that mocked at every tear,
That burst from our dreary dwelling,
As if each gasp were life expelling,
But life was nourished by despair.
The tossing and the anguished pining,
The grinding teeth and starting eye;
The agony of still repining,
when not a spark of hope was shining
From gloomy fate's reletless sky.
The impatient rage, the useless shrinking
From thoughts that yet could not be borne;
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poem by Emily Brontë from The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë (1908)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Prisoner
In the dungeon-crypts idly did I stray,
Reckless of the lives wasting there away;
'Draw the ponderous bars! open, Warder stern!'
He dared not say me nay—the hinges harshly turn.
'Our guests are darkly lodged,' I whisper'd, gazing through
The vault, whose grated eye showed heaven more gray than blue;
(This was when glad Spring laughed in awaking pride);
'Ay, darkly lodged enough!' returned my sullen guide.
Then, God forgive my youth; forgive my careless tongue;
I scoffed, as the chill chains on the damp flagstones rung:
'Confined in triple walls, art thou so much to fear,
That we must bind thee down and clench thy fetters here?'
The captive raised her face; it was as soft and mild
As sculptured marble saint, or slumbering unwean'd child;
It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair,
Pain could not trace a line, nor grief a shadow there!
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poem by Emily Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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