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    The Complete Poems of Anne Bronte
    The Complete Poems of Anne Bronte
    The Complete Poems of Anne Bronte
    Ebook125 pages1 hour

    The Complete Poems of Anne Bronte

    By Anne Brontë

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    About this ebook

    The youngest of the well-known Brontë siblings, Anne Brontë (1820-1849) grew up drawing and writing poetry in secret. As a child, Anne spent countless hours on the Yorkshire moors with her sister, Emily, creating an imaginary world called Gondal. Anne attended school at age fifteen, and there she experienced an episode of spiritual crisis, which is evidenced in many of her poems. She later worked as a governess before collaborating with her sisters, Emily and Charlotte, on a collection of poetry in 1846. The sisters used pen names to publish their work – Anne wrote as Acton Bell – to avoid unfair judgment as women writers. Although the collection sold poorly, Anne found a market for her own poetry, and was published in Fraser's Magazine. Unfortunately, her deeply insightful collection of work was cut short by an early death, and is therefore often overshadowed by that of her sisters.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateFeb 1, 2012
    ISBN9781420944761
    The Complete Poems of Anne Bronte
    Author

    Anne Brontë

    Anne Brontë was born in Yorkshire in 1820. She was the youngest of six children and the sister of fellow novelists Charlotte and Emily, the authors of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights respectively. Her mother died when she was a baby and she was raised by her aunt and her father, The Reverend Patrick Brontë. Anne worked as a governess before returning to Haworth where she and her sisters published poems under the pseudonyms Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. She published her first novel, Agnes Grey in 1847 and this was followed by The Tenant of Wildfell Hallin 1848. She died from tuberculosis in 1849

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    • 4/5
      I haven't read any(/either?) of Anne's novels, but I liked her poems quite a bit--especially the religious ones--so I may have to rectify this, haha.
    • 3/5
      In all there are 54 poems by Anne Brontë in this collection.I'm not a fan of poetry and this is the first collection of poems that I've read willingly - they forced me to read a lot at university.My reason for reading this collection is because I'm a big fan of Anne's prose fiction. As she only wrote two novels, I wanted to read everything else she penned during her short life.I'd recently read 20 of these poems in a mixture of prose and poetry featured in the collection of works by the Brontë siblings - namely 'Tales of Glass Town, Angria, and Gondal' - and discovered that Anne's poetry was far more palatable than any poems I'd read at university.Anne's poems are largely epic, telling stories, rather than trying to be cryptic and saying one thing whilst meaning another, which is why I didn't dislike this collection.

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    The Complete Poems of Anne Bronte - Anne Brontë

    THE COMPLETE POEMS OF ANNE BRONTE

    EDITED BY CLEMENT SHORTER

    A Digireads.com Book

    Digireads.com Publishing

    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4396-2

    Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4476-1

    This edition copyright © 2012

    Please visit www.digireads.com

    INTRODUCTION{1}

    BY CHARLOTTE BRONTË

    In looking over my sister Anne's papers, I find mournful evidence that religious feeling had been to her but too much like what it was to Cowper; I mean, of course, in a far milder form. Without rendering her a prey to those horrors that defy concealment, it subdued her mood and bearing to a perpetual pensiveness; the pillar of a cloud glided constantly before her eyes; she ever waited at the foot of a secret Sinai, listening in her heart to the voice of a trumpet sounding long and waxing louder. Some, perhaps, would rejoice over these tokens of sincere though sorrowing piety in a deceased relative: I own, to me they seem sad, as if her whole innocent life had been passed under the martyrdom of an unconfessed physical pain: their effect, indeed, would be too distressing, were it not combated by the certain knowledge that in her last moments this tyranny of a too tender conscience was overcome; this pomp of terrors broke up, and passing away, left her dying hour unclouded. Her belief in God did not then bring to her dread, as of a stern Judge,—but hope, as in a Creator and Saviour: and no faltering hope was it, but a sure and stedfast conviction, on which, in the rude passage from Time to Eternity, she threw the weight of her human weakness, and by which she was enabled to bear what was to be borne, patiently—serenely—victoriously.

    CONTENTS

    INTRODUCTION

    THE CAPTAIN'S DREAM

    THE NORTH WIND

    THE PARTING

    THE PARTING

    VERSES TO A CHILD

    SELF-CONGRATULATION

    THE BLUEBELL

    AN ORPHAN'S LAMENT

    LINES WRITTEN AT THORP GREEN

    APPEAL

    DESPONDENCY

    TO COWPER

    IN MEMORY OF A HAPPY DAY IN FEBRUARY

    LINES COMPOSED IN A WOOD ON A WINDY DAY

    A WORD TO THE 'ELECT.'

    THE DOUBTER'S PRAYER

    THE CAPTIVE DOVE

    THE CONSOLATION

    PAST DAYS

    THE STUDENT'S SERENADE

    A REMINISCENCE

    MEMORY

    FLUCTUATIONS

    A PRAYER

    THE DUNGEON

    HOME

    CALL ME AWAY

    NIGHT

    DREAMS

    IF THIS BE ALL

    CONFIDENCE

    VIEWS OF LIFE

    SONG. We know where deepest lies the snow

    SONG. Come to the banquet—triumph in your songs!

    VANITAS VANITATUM, OMNIA VANITAS

    STANZAS. Oh, weep not, love! each tear that springs

    THE PENITENT

    THE ARBOUR

    MUSIC ON CHRISTMAS MORNING

    There let thy bleeding branch atone

    Oh, they have robbed me of the hope

    DOMESTIC PEACE

    MIRTH AND MOURNING

    Weep not too much, my darling

    THE POWER OF LOVE

    I DREAMT LAST NIGHT

    THE LOVER

    SEVERED AND GONE

    THE THREE GUIDES

    Farewell to thee! but not farewell

    SELF-COMMUNION

    THE NARROW WAY

    FRAGMENT. Yes I will take a cheerful tone

    LAST LINES

    THE CAPTAIN'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,

    His hollow wandering eyes looked wild and fierce,

    And grief was printed on his marble brow,

    And, oh, I thought he claspéd his wasted hands,

    And raised his haggard eyes to Heaven, and prayed

    That he might die—I had no power to speak,

    I thought I was allowed to see him thus;

    And yet I might not speak one single word;

    I might not even tell him that I lived

    And that it might be possible if search were made,

    To find out where I was and set me free,

    Oh! how I longed to clasp him to my heart,

    Or but to hold his trembling hand in mine,

    And speak one word of comfort to his mind,

    I struggled wildly but it was in vain,

    I could not rise from my dark dungeon floor,

    And the dear name I vainly strove to speak,

    Died in a voiceless whisper on my tongue.

    Then I awoke, and lo! it was a dream!

    A dream? Alas it was reality!

    For well I know wherever he may be

    He mourns me thus—O heaven I could bear

    My deadly fate with calmness if there were

    No kindred hearts to bleed and break for me!

    THE NORTH WIND

    That wind is from the North, I know it well;

    No other breeze could have so wild a swell.

    Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell,

    The faintly dies, and softly sighs,

    And moans and murmurs mournfully.

    I know its language; thus is speaks to me—

    'I have passed over thy own mountains dear,

    Thy northern mountains—and they still are free,

    Still lonely, wild, majestic, bleak and drear,

    And stern and lovely, as they used to be

    When thou, a young enthusiast,

    As wild and free as they,

    O'er rocks and glens and snowy heights

    Didst often love to stray.

    I've blown the wild untrodden snows

    In whirling eddies from their brows,

    And I have howled in caverns wild

    Where thou, a joyous mountain child,

    Didst dearly love to be.

    The sweet world is not changed, but thou

    Art pining in a dungeon now,

    Where thou must ever be;

    No voice but mine can

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