Happy Birthday Emily Brontë !

Emily Jane Brontë

Today is the birthday of an English novelist and poet Emily Jane Brontë (30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848), known for her solitary novel, Wuthering Heights, now considered a classic of English literature. Emily was the third eldest of the four surviving Brontë siblings, between the youngest Anne and her brother Branwell. She published under the pen name Ellis Bell. Presenting some poems : Being Poet

Me thinks this heart...

Me thinks this heart should rest awhile
So stilly round the evening falls
The veiled sun sheds no parting smile
Nor mirth nor music wakes my Halls 

I have sat lonely all the day
Watching the drizzly mist descend
And first conceal the hills in grey
And then along the valleys wend 

And I have sat and watched the trees
And the sad flowers how drear they blow
Those flowers were formed to feel the breeze
Wave their light leaves in summer's glow 

Yet their lives passed in gloomy woe
And hopeless comes its dark decline
And I lament because I know
That cold departure pictures mine 

A Little Budding Rose

It was a little budding rose,
Round like a fairy globe,
And shyly did its leaves unclose
Hid in their mossy robe,
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell
It breathed from its heart invisible. 

The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,
Its root has felt a worm,
And like a heart beloved and slighted,
Failed, faded, shrunk its form.
Bud of beauty, bonnie flower
I stole thee from thy natal bower. 

I was the worm that withered thee,
Thy tears of dew all fell for me;
Leaf and stalk and rose are gone,
Exile earth they died upon.
Yes, that last breath of balmy scent
With alien breezes sadly blent! 

Death, that struck when I was most confiding

Death! that struck when I was most confiding
In my certain faith of joy to be -
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing
From the fresh root of Eternity! 

Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,
Full of sap, and full of silver dew;
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew. 

Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;
Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride;
But, within its parent's kindly bosom,
Flowed for ever Life's restoring-tide. 

Little mourned I for the parted gladness,
For the vacant nest and silent song -
Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness;
Whispering, ' Winter will not linger long!' 

And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing,
Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray;
Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing,
Lavished glory on that second May! 

High it rose - no winged grief could sweep it;
Sin was scared to distance with its shine;
Love, and its own life, had power to keep it
From all wrong - from every blight but thine! 

Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish;
Evening's gentle air may still restore -
No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish -
Time, for me, must never blossom more! 

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish
Where that perished sapling used to be;
Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish
That from which it sprung - Eternity. 

Come hither, child

Come hither, child--who gifted thee 
With power to touch that string so well? 
How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me, 
Thoughts that I would--but cannot quell?

Nay, chide not, lady; long ago 
I heard those notes in Ula's hall, 
And had I known they'd waken woe 
I'd weep their music to recall.

But thus it was: one festal night 
When I was hardly six years old 
I stole away from crowds and light 
And sought a chamber dark and cold.

I had no one to love me there, 
I knew no comrade and no friend; 
And so I went to sorrow where 
Heaven, only heaven saw me bend.

Loud blew the wind; 'twas sad to stay 
From all that splendour barred away. 
I imaged in the lonely room 
A thousand forms of fearful gloom.

And with my wet eyes raised on high 
I prayed to God that I might die. 
Suddenly in that silence drear 
A sound of music reached my ear,

And then a note, I hear it yet, 
So full of soul, so deeply sweet, 
I thought that Gabriel's self had come 
To take me to thy father's home.

Three times it rose, that seraph strain, 
Then died, nor breathed again; 
But still the words and still the tone 
Dwell round my heart when all alone.