Anne Bronte

Dreams

Night

I LOVE the silent hour of night,
For blissful dreams may then arise,
Revealing to my charmed sight
What may not bless my waking eyes.

And then a voice may meet my ear,
That death has silenced long ago;
And hope and rapture may appear
Instead of solitude and woe.

Cold in the grave for years has lain
The form it was my bliss to see;
And only dreams can bring again,
The darling of my heart to me.

My soul is awakened

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 ae tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray,
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!

Home

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:

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,
      And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills
      Where colder breezes rise:

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
      Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
      Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide,
      With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
      And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot,
      With gray walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
      And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high
      Invites the foor to roam,
And though the halls are fair within--
      Oh, give me back my home!

A Reminiscence.

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,

May stand upon the cold, damp stone,
And think that, frozen, lies below
The lightest heart that I have known,
The kindest I shall ever know.

Yet, though I cannot see thee more,
'Tis still a comfort to have seen;
And though thy transient life is o'er,
'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;

To think a soul so near divine,
Within a form, so angel fair,
United to a heart like thine,
Has gladdened once our humble sphere.

Memory

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;

That I might simply fancy there
One little flower­a primrose fair,
  Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
  A source of strange delight.

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee;
  Oh, still thy tribute bring!
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
  The glory of the spring.

Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight blue bell,
  My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
  With all thy former power.

For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
  And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
  Or rippling waters play.

Is childhood, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
  That haloes thus the past?
Not all divine; its pangs of grief,
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,)
  Are bitter while they last.

Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
  That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
  Though long ago they passed.

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.

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.

In vain-in vain! Thou canst not rise:
Thy prison roof confines thee there;
Its slender wires delude thine eyes,
And quench thy longings with despair.

Oh, thou wert made to wander free
In sunny mead and shady grove,
And, far beyond the rolling sea,
In distant climes, at will to rove!

Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate
Thy little drooping heart to cheer,
And share with thee thy captive state,
Thou couldst be happy even there.

Yes, even there, if, listening by,
One faithful dear companion stood,
While gazing on her full bright eye,
Thou mightst forget thy native wood.

But thou, poor solitary dove,
Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;
The heart, that Nature formed to love,
Must pine, neglected, and alone.

Lines composed in a Wood on a Windy Day

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.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!