Anne Brontë was a British novelist and poet, the youngest member of the Brontë literary family.
The daughter of a poor Irish clergyman in the Church of England, Anne Brontë lived most of her life with her family at the parish of Haworth on the Yorkshire moors. For a couple of years she went to a boarding school. At the age of nineteen, she left Haworth working as a governess between 1839 and 1845. After leaving her teaching position, she fulfilled her literary ambitions. She wrote a volume of poetry with her sisters (Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, 1846) and in short succession she wrote two novels. Agnes Grey, based upon her experiences as a governess, was published in ... more »
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Anne Brontë Poems
Farewell to thee! but not farewell To all my fondest thoughts of thee: Within my heart they still shall dwell; And they shall cheer and comfort me.
While on my lonely couch I lie, I seldom feel myself alone, For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own.
Oh, They have Robbed Me of The Hope
Oh, they have robbed me of the hope My spirit held so dear; They will not let me hear that voice My soul delights to hear.
Oppressed with sin and woe, A burdened heart I bear, Opposed by many a mighty foe: But I will not despair.
The Captive Dove
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.
My God (oh, let me call Thee mine, Weak, wretched sinner though I be), My trembling soul would fain be Thine; My feeble faith still clings to Thee.
A fine and subtle spirit dwells In every little flower, Each one its own sweet feeling breathes With more or less of power.
Alexander And Zenobia
Fair was the evening and brightly the sun Was shining on desert and grove, Sweet were the breezes and balmy the flowers And cloudless the heavens above.
YES, thou art gone ! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me ; But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee.
A Voice From The Dungeon
I'm buried now; I've done with life; I've done with hate, revenge and strife; I've done with joy, and hope and love And all the bustling world above.
How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays! While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays.
O, let me be alone a while, No human form is nigh. And may I sing and muse aloud, No mortal ear is by.
The Captive's Dream
Methought I saw him but I knew him not; He was so changed from what he used to be, There was no redness on his woe-worn cheek, No sunny smile upon his ashy lips,
A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep
A prisoner in a dungeon deep Sat musing silently; His head was rested on his hand, His elbow on his knee.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.
O, beautiful, and full of grace!
If thou hadst never met mine eye,
I had not dreamed a living face
Could fancied charms so far outvie.
If I may ne'er behold again
That form and face so dear to me,
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain
Preserve, for aye, their memory.
That voice, the magic of whose tone
Can wake an echo in my breast,