Poem of the Day

Time for more Brontë!

Appeal
By Anne Brontë

Oh, I am very weary,
Though tears no longer flow;
My eyes are tired of weeping,
My heart is sick of woe;

My life is very lonely
My days pass heavily,
I’m weary of repining;
Wilt thou not come to me?

Oh, didst thou know my longings
For thee, from day to day,
My hopes, so often blighted,
Thou wouldst not thus delay!

I’m kind of tired and kind of cranky, so I’m posting a sad poem.

If This Be All
By Anne Brontë

O God! if this indeed be all
   That Life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall
   No freshening dew from Thee;

If with no brighter light than this
   The lamp of hope may glow,
And I may only dream of bliss,
   And wake to weary woe;

If friendship’s solace must decay,
   When other joys are gone,
And love must keep so far away,
   While I go wandering on,—

Wandering and toiling without gain,
   The slave of others’ will,
With constant care, and frequent pain,
   Despised, forgotten still;

Grieving to look on vice and sin,
   Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,
   The outward torrent’s swell:

While all the good I would impart,
   The feelings I would share,
Are driven backward to my heart,
   And turned to wormwood there;

If clouds must ever keep from sight
   The glories of the Sun,
And I must suffer Winter’s blight,
   Ere Summer is begun;

If Life must be so full of care,
   Then call me soon to thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
   My load of misery.

I thought I’d give Anne Brontë a chance to redeem herself after the disappointment of Agnes Grey. Yep, she did. I totally cried when I read this poem.

Last Lines
By Anne Brontë

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high.

But God has fixed another part,
And He has fixed it well;
I said so with my bleeding heart,
When first the anguish fell.

A dreadful darkness closes in
On my bewildered mind;
Oh, let me suffer and not sin,
Be tortured, yet resigned.

Shall I with joy thy blessings share
And not endure their loss?
Or hope the martyr’s crown to wear
And cast away the cross?

Thou, God, hast taken our delight,
Our treasured hope away;
Thou bidst us now weep through the night
And sorrow through the day.

These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of misery,
These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,
Can I but turn to Thee.

Weak and weary though I lie,
Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,
I may lift to Heaven mine eye,
And strive to labour not in vain;

That inward strife against the sins
That ever wait on suffering
To strike whatever first begins:
Each ill that would corruption bring;

That secret labour to sustain
With humble patience every blow;
To gather fortitude from pain,
And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
Whate’er may be my written fate:
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,
More humbled I should be;
More wise, more strengthened for the strife,
More apt to lean on Thee.

Should death be standing at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow;
But, Lord! whatever be my fate,
Oh, let me serve Thee now!

Note by Charlotte Brontë: “These lines written, the desk was closed, the pen laid aside - for ever.”

I still haven’t read the collected Brontë poems, but this one was in the forward to The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, so here it is. Expect more in the future!

The Narrow Way
By Anne Brontë

Believe not those who say
The upward path is smooth,
Lest thou shouldst stumble in the way,
And faint before the truth.

It is the only road
Unto the realms of joy;
But he who seeks that blest abode
Must all his powers employ.

Bright hopes and pure delight
Upon his course may beam,
And there, amid the sternest heights,
The sweetest flowerets gleam.

On all her breezes borne,
Earth yields no scents like those;
But he that dares not gasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose.

Arm–arm thee for the fight!
Cast useless loads away;
Watch through the darkest hours of night;
Toil through the hottest day.

Crush pride into the dust,
Or thou must needs be slack;
And trample down rebellious lust,
Or it will hold thee back.

Seek not thine honour here:
Waive pleasures and renown;
The world’s dread scof undaunted bear,
And face its deadliest frown.

To labour and to love,
To pardon and endure,
To live thy heart to God above,
And keepthy conscience pure;

Be this thy constant aim,
Thy hope, thy chief delight;
What matter who should whisper blame,
Or who should scorn or slight?

What matter, if they God approve,
And if, within thy breast,
Thou feel the comfort of His love,
The earnest of His rest?