A Death - Scene - Emily Brontë

"O day! he cannot die
When thou so fair art shining!
O Sun, in such a glorious sky,
So tranquilly declining;

He cannot leave thee now,
While fresh west winds are blowing,
And all around his youthful brow
Thy cheerful light is glowing!

Edward, awake, awake -
The golden evening gleams
Warm and bright on Arden's lake -
Arouse thee from thy dreams!

Beside thee, on my knee,
My dearest friend! I pray
That thou, to cross the eternal sea,
Wouldst yet one hour delay:

I hear its billows roar -
I see them foaming high;
But no glimpse of a further shore
Has blest my straining eye.

Believe not what they urge
Of Eden isles beyond;
Turn back, from that tempestuous surge,
To thy own native land.

It is not death, but pain
That struggles in thy breast -
Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again;
I cannot let thee rest!"

One long look, that sore reproved me
For the woe I could not bear -
One mute look of suffering moved me
To repent my useless prayer:

And, with sudden check, the heaving
Of distraction passed away;
Not a sign of further grieving
Stirred my soul that awful day.

Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting;
Sunk to peace the twilight breeze:
Summer dews fell softly, wetting
Glen, and glade, and silent trees.

Then his eyes began to weary,
Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;
And their orbs grew strangely dreary,
Clouded, even as they would weep.

But they wept not, but they changed not,
Never moved, and never closed;
Troubled still, and still they ranged not -
Wandered not, nor yet reposed!

So I knew that he was dying -
Stooped, and raised his languid head;
Felt no breath, and heard no sighing,
So I knew that he was dead.

Emily Brontë

A Day Dream - Emily Brontë

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 caroled 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 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 its fall
Is on the 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 gleaming 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 rung
To their strange minstrelsy,
The little glittering spirits sung,
Or seemed to sing, to me.

"O 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 wouldst 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.

Emily Brontë

Me thinks this heart - Emily Brontë

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

Emily Brontë

I am the only being whose doom - Emily Brontë

I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born

In secret pleasure - secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away
As friendless after eighteen years
As lone as on my natal day

There have been times I cannot hide
There have been times when this was drear
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here

But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were

First melted off the hope of youth
Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew

'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere -
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there

Emily Brontë

A little while - Emily Brontë

A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.

Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,
What thought, what scene invites thee now?
What spot, or near or far,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear,
So longed for, as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them, how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away,
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side;

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.

Emily Brontë

Short Biography Of Emily Bronte 1818 - 1848

Emily Bronte (July 30, 1818 — December 19, 1848) - Poet and Novelist; famous for her classic novel Wuthering Heights.

With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Emily Bronte No Coward Soul Is Mine (1848)

Emily Bronte was born 30 July 1818 in Thornton, Near Bradford in Yorkshire.

She was the fifth of six children, including Anne and Charlotte Bronte, who both became writers as well.

When Emily was six years old, the Bronte family moved to the village of Haworth, a village nestled in the windswept moors of West Yorkshire, which later inspired many of her writings:

Photo left - portrait by her brother.

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dreamlike charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

Emily Bronter, A Little While, a Little While (1846) Stanza vii.

Her father was made the local curate of Haworth and the family lived there for the remainder of their lives. The old vicarage is now a museum dedicated to the Brontes.

Shortly after moving to Howarth, Emily's mother passed away. The girls were then sent to the Clergy Daughters' school at Cowen Bridge. In the aftermath of her mother's passing, this was a traumatic experience as the sisters found the school harsh and unsympathetic. This school experience was incorporated into Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.

During a typhus epidemic, Emily lost two of her sisters (Maria and Elizabeth) to the illness; shortly afterwards Emily returned home where she was educated by her father and aunt. For a brief period, when she was 17, Emily went to Roe Head girl's school where Charlotte was a teacher. But, due to homesickness she soon returned home.

The sisters hoped one day to set up their own school, though this never materialised. But, to gain experience, Emily became a teacher in Halifax in September 1838. However, she struggled to cope with the exhausting hours, and after a few months returned to Haworth. Apart from a brief stay in a girls academy in Belgium, Emily spent most of her later life in Haworth, where she concentrated on domestic tasks looking after her brother and family. Like her father she seems to have preferred a quiet, reclusive life. As a character in her novel writes:

"I'm now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself."

Mr. Lockwood (Ch. III) - Wuthering Heights (1847)

This certainly applied to her father, who was quite reclusive and liked to dine alone in his room. Domestic life for Emily, was undoubtedly made difficult by her brother, Branwell who suffered from mood swings, influenced by his alcohol and drug addictions. Branwell died in 1848, shortly before Emily.

From an early age, Emily began writing displaying a vivid imagination. Her early writings were in collaboration with her sisters and brothers about an imaginary world (Gondal saga). Only small fragments remain from this period. She continued writing throughout her life, though it became an increasingly private affair; initially she disliked the idea of her poems being published though she was persuaded on finding her sisters had been writing similar poems.

In 1846, the three Bronte sisters published a collection of poems under the pseudonyms Currer Bell (Charlotte), Ellis Bell (Emily) and Acton Bell (Anne). The fact they chose masculine names suggests they wanted to avoid the prejudgment of female writers. At the time, it was rare for women writers to be published.

In 1847, she published her only novel Wuthering Heights. Based on the windswept moors of Haworth, it is a powerful tale of love, hate, sorrow and death; it
later became a classic of English literature. Though at the time, its innovative structure and complexity led to mixed reviews. In 1850, her sister Charlotte republished the book under Emily's real name.

Frail throughout her life, Emily fell seriously sick in the autumn of 1848. Her health was undoubtedly harmed by unsanitary water which drained from the nearby churchyard. Shortly after her brother's funeral she caught a serious cold, and refusing medical help, she died on 19 December 1848.

Emily Bronte left little writings about herself. Often, her poems and novel have been scrutinised for autobiographical hints. However, it is difficult to fully ascertain which poems are just imagination and which relate to part of her character. Her writings have been included in the braod period of romanticism. They range from stark reminders of the harshness of life, to the potential beauty and power of love and a mystical power of nature.

'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there

Emily Bronte - I Am the Only Being (1836)

Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;
My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels —
Its wings are almost free, its home, its harbour found;
Measuring the gulf, it stoops and dares the final bound —

Emily Bronte - The Prisoner (October 1845)