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| Anne Bronte |
| Oh, they have robbed me of the hope My spirit held so dear; They will not let me hear that voice My soul delights to hear. They will not let me see that face I so delight to see; And they have taken all thy smiles, And all thy love from me. Well, let them seize on all they can:-- One treasure still is mine, -- A heart that loves to think on thee, And feels the worth of thine. |
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| 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 wearing of repining, Wilt thou not come to me? Oh, didst thou know of my longings For thee, from day to day, My hopes, so often blighted, Thou wouldst not thus delay! |
| A passage describing Anne Bronte's death which I find very moving: The three spent the rest of the morning in their lounge; Anne sat in her easy chair by the window, looking out over the bay once more; the weather was glorious and the sea as "calm as glass": she looked "so serene and reliant", reported Ellen. "Nothing occurred to incite alarm until about 11am when Anne announced that she felt a change: she believed she did not have long to live". A doctor was called, and Anne asked him "how long he thought she might live - not to fear speaking the truth, for she was not afraid to die". The doctor admitted "that the angel of death had already arrived and that life was ebbing fast. She thanked him for his truthfulness... and reverently invoked a blessing from on high, first on her sister, then upon her friend, to whom she said, "be a sister in my stead. Give Charlotte as much of your company as you can".' When she became restless as death approached, she was carried across to the safa, and asked if she were easier: she replied "It is not you who can give me ease, but soon all will be well through the merits of our Redeemer". Seeing Charlotte was barely able to restrain her grief, she whispered her last words: "Take courage, Charlotte; take courage." A few moments later, at two o'clock in the afternoon of Whit Monday, 28 May 1849, Anne quietly died. |
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| I was instantly drawn to Anne Bronte's style of writing from the first time I read The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Her novel had covered topics considered very daring for the Victorian age. Besides, she wrote from the heart, expressing feelings of sorrow and joy in a way one can relate to. Personally, I feel that this characteristic makes the best writers. It is indeed a pity she died at a young age of 29, with only 2 novels and a number of poems, but even in her death, she displayed Godliness and courage uncommon among people. She can be considered someone of great personality and strength, though greatly undermined. |
| Two of her poems that I like: |