Poetry – Excessively Diverting

21 February 2019

No More Inspire

Shall earth no more inspire thee,

Thou lonely dreamer now?

Since passion may not fire thee

Shall Nature cease to bow?

Thy mind is ever moving

In regions dark to thee;

Recall its useless roving—

Come back and dwell with me.

I know my mountain breezes

Enchant and soothe thee still—

I know my sunshine pleases

Despite thy wayward will.

When day with evening blending

Sinks from the summer sky,

I’ve seen thy spirit bending

In fond idolatry.

I’ve watched thee every hour;

I know my mighty sway,

I know my magic power

To drive thy griefs away.

Few hearts to mortals given

On earth so wildly pine;

Yet none would ask a heaven

Lengthen Night and Shorten Day

“Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.” Bronte: Poems by Emily Bronte

26 April 2018

Passion

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.

Passion
by Charlotte Bronte

SOME have won a wild delight,
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
I’d hazard death to-morrow.

Could the battle-struggle earn
One kind glance from thine eye,
How this withering heart would burn,
The heady fight to try !

Welcome nights of broken sleep,
And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
To hear my perils told.

Tell me, if with wandering bands
I roam full far away,
Wilt thou, to those distant lands,
In spirit ever stray ?

Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;
Bid mebid me go
Where Seik and Briton meet in war,
On Indian Sutlej’s flow.

Blood has dyed the Sutlej’s waves
With scarlet stain, I know;
Indus’ borders yawn with graves,
Yet, command me go !

Though rank and high the holocaust
Of nations, steams to heaven,
Glad I’d join the death-doomed host,
Were but the mandate given.

Passion’s strength should nerve my arm,
Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
Like trees to tempest-strife.

If, hot from war, I seek thy love,
Darest thou turn aside ?
Darest thou, then, my fire reprove,
By scorn, and maddening pride ?

Nomy will shall yet control
Thy will, so high and free,
And love shall tame that haughty soul
Yestenderest love for me.

I’ll read my triumph in thine eyes,
Behold, and prove the change;
Then leave, perchance, my noble prize,
Once more in arms to range.

I’d die when all the foam is up,
The bright wine sparkling high;
Nor wait till in the exhausted cup
Life’s dull dregs only lie.

Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
Hope blest with fulness large,
I’d mount the saddle, draw the sword,
And perish in the charge !

19 April 2018

[A dreadful darkness closes in]

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.

12 April 2018

To the Memory of Mrs. Lefroy

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.

To the Memory of Mrs. Lefroy
by Jane Austen

Who died Dec:r 16 — my Birthday.

The day returns again, my natal day;
What mix’d emotions with the Thought arise!
Beloved friend, four years have pass’d away
Since thou wert snatch’d forever from our eyes.–
The day, commemorative of my birth
Bestowing Life and Light and Hope on me,
Brings back the hour which was thy last on Earth.
Oh! bitter pang of torturing Memory!–

Angelic Woman! past my power to praise
In Language meet, thy Talents, Temper, mind.
Thy solid Worth, they captivating Grace!–
Thou friend and ornament of Humankind!–

At Johnson’s death by Hamilton t’was said,
‘Seek we a substitute–Ah! vain the plan,
No second best remains to Johnson dead–
None can remind us even of the Man.’

So we of thee–unequall’d in thy race
Unequall’d thou, as he the first of Men.
Vainly we wearch around the vacant place,
We ne’er may look upon thy like again.

Come then fond Fancy, thou indulgant Power,–
–Hope is desponding, chill, severe to thee!–
Bless thou, this little portion of an hour,
Let me behold her as she used to be.

I see her here, with all her smiles benign,
Her looks of eager Love, her accents sweet.
That voice and Countenance almost divine!–
Expression, Harmony, alike complete.–

I listen–’tis not sound alone–’tis sense,
‘Tis Genius, Taste and Tenderness of Soul.
‘Tis genuine warmth of heart without pretence
And purity of Mind that crowns the whole.

She speaks; ’tis Eloquence–that grace of Tongue
So rare, so lovely!–Never misapplied
By her to palliate Vice, or deck a Wrong,
She speaks and reasons but on Virtue’s side.

Her’s is the Engergy of Soul sincere.
Her Christian Spirit ignorant to feign,
Seeks but to comfort, heal, enlighten, chear,
Confer a pleasure, or prevent a pain.–

Can ought enhance such Goodness?–Yes, to me,
Her partial favour from my earliest years
Consummates all.–Ah! Give me yet to see
Her smile of Love.–the Vision diappears.

‘Tis past and gone–We meet no more below.
Short is the Cheat of Fancy o’er the Tomb.
Oh! might I hope to equal Bliss to go!
To meet thee Angel! in thy future home!–

Fain would I feel an union in thy fate,
Fain would I seek to draw an Omen fair
From this connection in our Earthly date.
Indulge the harmless weakness–Reason, spare.–

5 April 2018

A Day Dream

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 Day Dream
by Emily Bronte

On a sunny brae alone I lay
One summer afternoon;
It was the marriage-time of May
With her young lover, June.
From her Mother’s heart seemed loath to part
That queen of bridal charms,
But her Father smiled on the fairest child
He ever held in his arms.

The trees did wave their plumy crests,
The glad birds carolled clear;
And I, of all the wedding guests,
Was only sullen there.

There was not one but wished to shun
My aspect void of cheer;
The very grey rocks, looking on,
Asked, “What do you do here?”

And I could utter no reply:
In sooth I did not know
Why I had brought a clouded eye
To greet the general glow.

So, resting on a heathy bank,
I took my heart to me;
And we together sadly sank
Into a reverie.

We thought, “When winter comes again
Where will these bright things be?
All vanished, like a vision vain,
An unreal mockery!

“The birds that now so blithely sing,
Through deserts frozen dry,
Poor spectres of the perished Spring
In famished troops will fly.

“And why should we be glad at all?
The leaf is hardly green,
Before a token of the fall
Is on its surface seen.”

Now whether it were really so
I never could be sure-,
But as, in fit of peevish woe,
I stretched me on the moor,

A thousand thousand glancing fires
Seemed kindling in the air;
A thousand thousand silvery lyres
Resounded far and near:

Methought the very breath I breathed
Was full of sparks divine,
And all my heather-couch was wreathed
By that celestial shine.

And while the wide Earth echoing rang
To their strange minstrelsy,
The little glittering spirits sang,
Or seemed to sing, to me:

“0 mortal, mortal, let them die;
Let Time and Tears destroy,
That we may overflow the sky
With universal joy.

“Let Grief distract the sufferer’s breast,
And Night obscure his way;
They hasten him to endless rest,
And everlasting day.

“To Thee the world is like a tomb,
A desert’s naked shore;
To us, in unimagined bloom,
It brightens more and more.

“And could we lift the veil and give
One brief glimpse to thine eye
Thou would’st rejoice for those that live,
Because they live to die.”

The music ceased-the noonday Dream
Like dream of night withdrew
But Fancy still will sometimes deem
Her fond creation true.