Charlotte Bronte

This last denial of my faith, Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard; And, though upon my bed of death,

The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,

She will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams

I. The Garden. Above the city hung the moon, Right o'er a plot of ground

Life, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say; Oft a little morning rain

Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves Of cabinets, shut up for years, What a strange task we've set ourselves!

There's little joy in life for me, And little terror in the grave; I 've lived the parting hour to see

There's no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part: There's such a thing as keeping

Some have won a wild delight, By daring wilder sorrow; Could I gain thy love to-night,

I've quench'd my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall, The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart

A Short Poem or Else Not Say I True pleasure breathes not city air, Nor in Art's temples dwells,

Not in scorn do I reprove thee, Not in pride thy vows I waive, But, believe, I could not love thee,

"Sister, you've sat there all the day, Come to the hearth awhile; The wind so wildly sweeps away,

Long ago I wished to leave "The house where I was born;" Long ago I used to grieve,

Speak of the North! A lonely moor Silent and dark and tractless swells, The waves of some wild streamlet pour

If thou be in a lonely place, If one hour's calm be thine, As Evening bends her placid face

Above the city hung the moon, Right o'er a plot of ground Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced

What is she writing? Watch her now, How fast her fingers move! How eagerly her youthful brow

Plough, vessel, plough the British main, Seek the free ocean's wider plain; Leave English scenes and English skies,

Warm is the parlour atmosphere, Serene the lamp's soft light; The vivid embers, red and clear,

The room is quiet, thoughts alone People its mute tranquillity; The yoke put off, the long task done,

Above the city hangs the moon, Some clouds are boding rain; Gilbert, erewhile on journey gone,

Sit still, a word, a breath may break (As light airs stir a sleeping lake) The glassy calm that soothes my woes,

But two miles more, and then we rest! Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the brightness of the West

We take from life one little share, And say that this shall be A space, redeemed from toil and care,