Encourage By Laughing

“Whatever was wrong, in either her or her brother, he would encourage by laughing at, if not by actually praising: people little know the injury they do to children by laughing at their faults, and making a pleasant jest of what their true friends have endeavoured to teach them to hold in grave abhorrence.”   Anges Grey by Anne Bronte

Cherish His Image

“But still, I would think of him: I would cherish his image in my mind; and treasure every word, look, and gesture that my memory could retain; and brood over his excellences and his peculiarities, and, in fact, all I had seen, heard, or imagined respecting him.” Anges Grey by Anne Bronte

Once With A Foolish

“I was infatuated once with a foolish, besotted affection, that clung to him in spite of his unworthiness, but it is fairly gone now–wholly crushed and withered away; and he has none but himself and his vices to thank for it.” The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte

Study My Pleasure

“If you would really study my pleasure, mother, you must consider your own comfort and convenience a little more than you do.” The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte

Rather Be Like Myself

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve thought of it often and often before, but he’s such devilish good company is Huntingdon, after all – you can’t imagine what a jovial good fellow he is when he’s not fairly drunk, only just primed or half-seas-over – we all have a bit of a liking for him at the bottom of our hearts, though we can’t respect him.’

‘But should you wish yourself to be like him?’

‘No, I’d rather be like myself, bad as I am.” The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte

Certain Graceful Ease

“There was a certain graceful ease and freedom about all he said and did, that gave a sense of repose and expansion to the mind, after so much constraint and formality as I had been doomed to suffer.” The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte

[A dreadful darkness closes in]

Image of Anne Bronte

It would not be poetry month without posting poems from the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen! Every Thursday this month, I’ll post a new poem from one of our leading ladies.

[A dreadful darkness closes in]
by Anne Bronte

A dreadful darkness closes in
                     On my bewildered mind;
O let me suffer and not sin,
                     Be tortured yet resigned.
Through all this world of whelming mist
                    Still let me look to Thee,
And give me courage to resist
                    The Tempter till he flee.
Weary I am — O give me strength
                    And leave me not to faint;
Say Thou wilt comfort me at legnth
                    And pity my complaint.
I’ve begged to serve Thee heart and soul,
                    To sacrifice to Thee
No niggard portion, but the whole
                    Of my identity.
I hoped amid the brave and strong
                    My portioned task might lie,
To toil amid the labouring throng
                    With purpose pure and high.
But Thou hast fixed another part,
                    And Thou hast fixed it well;
I said so with my bleeding heart
                    When first the anguish fell.
For Thou hast taken my delight,
And hope of life away,
And bid me watch the painful night
And wait the weary day.
The hope and delight were Thine;
                    I bless Thee for their loan;
I gave Thee while I deemed them mine
                    Too little thanks, I own.
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?
These weary hours will not be lost,
                    These days of passive misery,
These nights of darkness anguish tost
                    If I can fix my heart on Thee.
Weak and weary though I lie,
                    Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,
Still I may lift to Heaven mine eye,
                    And strive and labour not in vain,
That inward strife against the sins
                    That ever wait on suffering;
To watch and strike where 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,
                    Whatever 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, whate’er my future fate
                    So let me serve Thee now.