Poem of the Day

I’m going to see Jane Eyre: The Musical today, so I thought I’d post a poem by CB.

Life
By Charlotte Brontë

Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

One more from Jane Eyre.

From Jane Eyre
CHAPTER III
By Charlotte Brontë

My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only
Watch o’er the steps of a poor orphan child.

Yet distant and soft the night-breeze is blowing,
Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,
God, in His mercy, protection is showing,
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

Ev’n should I fall o’er the broken bridge passing,
Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,
Still will my Father, with promise and blessing,
Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.

There is a thought that for strength should avail me,
Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;
God is a friend to the poor orphan child.

I’m still reading Jane Eyre and loving it (all over again)!

From Jane Eyre
CHAPTER XXIV
By Charlotte Brontë

The truest love that ever heart
   Felt at its kindled core
Did through each vein, in quickened start,
   The tide of being pour.

Her coming was my hope each day,
   Her parting was my pain;
The chance that did her steps delay
   Was ice in every vein.

I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,
   As I loved, loved to be;
And to this object did I press
   As blind as eagerly.

But wide as pathless was the space
   That lay, our lives, between,
And dangerous as the foamy race
   Of ocean-surges green.

And haunted as a robber path
   Through wilderness or wood;
For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,
   Between our spirits stood.

I dangers dared; I hind’rance scorned;
   I omens did defy:
Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,
   I passed impetuous by.

On sped my rainbow, fast as light;
   I flew as in a dream;
For glorious rose upon my sight
   That child of Shower and Gleam.

Still bright on clouds of suffering dim
   Shines that soft, solemn joy;
Nor care I now, how dense and grim
   Disasters gather nigh.

I care not in this moment sweet,
   Though all I have rushed o’er
Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,
   Proclaiming vengeance sore:

Though haughty Hate should strike me down,
   Right, bar approach to me,
And grinding Might, with furious frown,
   Swear endless enmity.

My love has placed her little hand
   With noble faith in mine,
And vowed that wedlock’s sacred band
   Our nature shall entwine.

My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,
   With me to live—to die;
I have at last my nameless bliss.
   As I love—loved am I!

To go with yesterday’s poem…

On the Death of Anne Brontë
By Charlotte Brontë

There’s little joy in life for me,
   And little terror in the grave;
I’ve lived the parting hour to see
   Of one I would have died to save.

Calmly to watch the failing breath,
   Wishing each sigh might be the last;
Longing to see the shade of death
   O’er those beloved features cast;

The cloud, the stillness that must part
   The darling of my life from me;
And then to thank God from my heart,
   To thank Him well and fervently;

Although I knew that we had lost
   The hope and glory of our life;
And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,
   Must bear alone the weary strife.

I’m not sad, but I’m going to post a sad poem anyway. Poor Charlotte…

On the Death of Emily Jane Brontë
By Charlotte Brontë

My darling, thou wilt never know
The grinding agony of woe
   That we have borne for thee.
Thus may we consolation tear
E’en from the depth of our despair
   And wasting misery.

The nightly anguish thou art spared
When all the crushing truth is bared
   To the awakening mind,
When the galled heart is pierced with grief,
Till wildly it implores relief,
   But small relief can find.

Nor know’st thou what it is to lie
Looking forth with streaming eye
   On life’s lone wilderness.
‘Weary, weary, dark and drear,
How shall I the journey bear,
   The burden and distress?’

Then since thou art spared such pain
We will not wish thee here again;
   He that lives must mourn.
God help us through our misery
And give us rest and joy with thee
   When we reach our bourne!

I had a great time over Thanksgiving, but I was sad to leave yesterday.

Parting
By Charlotte Brontë

There’s no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There’s such a thing as keeping
A remembrance in one’s heart:

There’s such a thing as dwelling
On the thought ourselves have nursed,
And with scorn and courage telling
The world to do its worst.

We’ll not let its follies grieve us,
We’ll just take them as they come;
And then every day will leave us
A merry laugh for home.

When we’ve left each friend and brother,
When we’re parted wide and far,
We will think of one another,
As even better than we are.

Every glorious sight above us,
Every pleasant sight beneath,
We’ll connect with those that love us,
Whom we truly love till death!

In the evening, when we’re sitting
By the fire, perchance alone,
Then shall heart with warm heart meeting,
Give responsive tone for tone.

We can burst the bonds which chain us,
Which cold human hands have wrought,
And where none shall dare restrain us
We can meet again, in thought.

So there’s no use in weeping,
Bear a cheerful spirit still;
Never doubt that Fate is keeping
Future good for present ill!

Even though I’ve read all the novels by the Brontë sisters, I still have a lot more poems to read. Here’s one I’ve already read.

Presentiment
By Charlotte Brontë

“Sister, you’ve sat there all the day,
   Come to the hearth awhile;
The wind so wildly sweeps away,
   The clouds so darkly pile.
That open book has lain, unread,
   For hours upon your knee;
You’ve never smiled nor turned your head
   What can you, sister, see?”

“Come hither, Jane, look down the field;
   How dense a mist creeps on!
The path, the hedge, are both concealed,
   Ev’n the white gate is gone;
No landscape through the fog I trace,
   No hill with pastures green;
All featureless is nature’s face,
   All masked in clouds her mien.

“Scarce is the rustle of a leaf
   Heard in our garden now;
The year grows old, its days wax brief,
   The tresses leave its brow.
The rain drives fast before the wind,
   The sky is blank and grey;
O Jane, what sadness fills the mind
   On such a dreary day!”

“You think too much, my sister dear;
   You sit too long alone;
What though November days be drear?
   Full soon will they be gone.
I’ve swept the hearth, and placed your chair,
   Come, Emma, sit by me;
Our own fireside is never drear,
Though late and wintry wane the year,
   Though rough the night may be.”

“The peaceful glow of our fireside
   Imparts no peace to me:
My thoughts would rather wander wide
   Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.
I’m on a distant journey bound,
   And if, about my heart,
Too closely kindred ties were bound,
   ’T would break when forced to part.

“‘Soon will November days be o’er:’
   Well have you spoken, Jane:
My own forebodings tell me more,
For me, I know by presage sure,
   They’ll ne’er return again.
Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me
   Will bring or joy or gloom;
They reach not that Eternity
   Which soon will be my home.”

Eight months are gone, the summer sun
   Sets in a glorious sky;
A quiet field, all green and lone,
   Receives its rosy dye.
Jane sits upon a shaded stile,
   Alone she sits there now;
Her head rests on her hand the while,
   And thought o’ercasts her brow.

She’s thinking of one winter’s day,
   A few short months ago,
When Emma’s bier was borne away
   O’er wastes of frozen snow.
She’s thinking how that drifted snow
   Dissolved in spring’s first gleam,
And how her sister’s memory now
   Fades, even as fades a dream.

The snow will whiten earth again,
   But Emma comes no more;
She left, ‘mid winter’s sleet and rain,
   This world for Heaven’s far shore.
On Beulah’s hills she wanders now,
   On Eden’s tranquil plain;
To her shall Jane hereafter go,
   She ne’er shall come to Jane!

I came across this poem while listening to From the North by Runrig. Both make me think of Lord of the Rings because areas (especially the North and the West) are referred to by relative geographical location. This poem makes me think of what the North must have been like after the fall of the Númenoreans.

Speak of the North
By Charlotte Brontë

Speak of the North! A lonely moor
Silent and dark and tractless swells,
The waves of some wild streamlet pour
Hurriedly through its ferny dells.

Profoundly still the twilight air,
Lifeless the landscape; so we deem
Till like a phantom gliding near
A stag bends down to drink the stream.

And far away a mountain zone,
A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies,
And one star, large and soft and lone,
Silently lights the unclouded skies.

This seemed appropriate since teaching seems to be ruling my life at the moment. Plus, I love CB!

The Teacher’s Monologue
By Charlotte Brontë

The room is quiet, thoughts alone
People its mute tranquillity;
The yoke put on, the long task done,—
I am, as it is bliss to be,
Still and untroubled. Now, I see,
For the first time, how soft the day
O’er waveless water, stirless tree,
Silent and sunny, wings its way.
Now, as I watch that distant hill,
So faint, so blue, so far removed,
Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,
That home where I am known and loved:
It lies beyond; yon azure brow
Parts me from all Earth holds for me;
And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow
Thitherward tending, changelessly.
My happiest hours, aye ! all the time,
I love to keep in memory,
Lapsed among moors, ere life’s first prime
Decayed to dark anxiety.

Sometimes, I think a narrow heart
Makes me thus mourn those far away,
And keeps my love so far apart
From friends and friendships of to-day;
Sometimes, I think ’tis but a dream
I measure up so jealously,
All the sweet thoughts I live on seem
To vanish into vacancy:
And then, this strange, coarse world around
Seems all that’s palpable and true;
And every sight, and every sound,
Combines my spirit to subdue
To aching grief, so void and lone
Is Life and Earth—so worse than vain,
The hopes that, in my own heart sown,
And cherished by such sun and rain
As Joy and transient Sorrow shed,
Have ripened to a harvest there:
Alas ! methinks I hear it said,
“Thy golden sheaves are empty air.”

All fades away; my very home
I think will soon be desolate;
I hear, at times, a warning come
Of bitter partings at its gate;
And, if I should return and see
The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;
And hear it whispered mournfully,
That farewells have been spoken there,
What shall I do, and whither turn?
Where look for peace? When cease to mourn?

‘Tis not the air I wished to play,
   The strain I wished to sing;
My wilful spirit slipped away
   And struck another string.
I neither wanted smile nor tear,
   Bright joy nor bitter woe,
But just a song that sweet and clear,
   Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace me
   When sleep refused to come;
A strain to chase despondency,
   When sorrowful for home.
In vain I try; I cannot sing;
   All feels so cold and dead;
No wild distress, no gushing spring
   Of tears in anguish shed;

But all the impatient gloom of one
   Who waits a distant day,
When, some great task of suffering done,
   Repose shall toil repay.
For youth departs, and pleasure flies,
   And life consumes away,
And youth’s rejoicing ardour dies
   Beneath this drear delay;

And Patience, weary with her yoke,
   Is yielding to despair,
And Health’s elastic spring is broke
   Beneath the strain of care.
Life will be gone ere I have lived;
   Where now is Life’s first prime?
I’ve worked and studied, longed and grieved,
   Through all that rosy time.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,—
   Is such my future fate?
The morn was dreary, must the eve
   Be also desolate?
Well, such a life at least makes Death
   A welcome, wished-for friend;
Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,
   To suffer to the end!