A Glimpse into the Poetry of Emily Bronte, the Author of Wuthering Heights

"A little while, a little while..."

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 domes;

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

                                                                      by Emily Bronte





Narrative poem

The Bridegroom

 

 

 For three days Natasha

 The merchant’s daughter,

 Was missing. The third night,

 She ran in, distraught.

 Her father and mother

 Plied her with questions.

 She did not hear them,

 She could hardly breathe.

 

 Stricken with foreboding

 They pleaded, got angry,

 But still she was silent;

 At last they gave up.

 Natasha’s cheeks regained

 Their rosy colour,

 And cheerfully again

 She sat with her sisters.

 

 Once at the shingle-gate

 She sat with her friends

 -And a swift troika

 Flashed by before them;

 A handsome young man

 Stood driving the horses;

 Snow and mud went flying,

 Splashing the girls.

 

 He gazed as he flew past,

 And Natasha gazed.

 He flew on. Natasha froze.

 Headlong she ran home.

‘It was he! It was he!’

She cried. ‘I know it!’

I recognized him! Papa,

 Mama, save me from him!’

 

Full of grief and fear,

 They shake their heads, sighing.

 Her father says: ‘My child,

 Tell me everything.

 If someone has harmed you,

 Tell us … even a hint.’

She weeps again and

 Her lips remain sealed.

 

 The next morning, the old

 Matchmaking woman

 Unexpectedly calls and

 Sings the girl’s praises;

 Says to the father; ‘You

 Have the goods and I

 A buyer for them:

 A handsome young man.

 

‘He bows to no one,

 He lives like a lord

 With no debts nor worries;

 He’s rich and he’s generous,

 Says he will give his bride,

 On their wedding-day,

 A fox-fur coat, a pearl,

 Gold rings, brocaded dresses.

 

‘Yesterday, out driving,

 He saw your Natasha;

 Shall we shake hands

 And get her to church?’

The woman starts to eat

 A pie, and talks in riddles,

 While the poor girl

 Does not know where to look.

 

‘Agreed,’ says her father;

‘Go in happiness

 To the altar, Natasha;

 It’s dull for you here;

 A swallow should not spend

 All its time singing,

 It’s time for you to build

 A nest for your children.’

 

Natasha leaned against

 The wall and tried

 To speak – but found herself

 Sobbing; she was shuddering

 And laughing. The matchmaker

 Poured out a cup of water,

 Gave her some to drink,

 Splashed some in her face.

 

 Her parents are distressed.

 Then Natasha recovered,

 And calmly she said:

‘Your will be done. Call

 My bridegroom to the feast,

 Bake loaves for the whole world,

 Brew sweet mead and call

 The law to the feast.’

 

 ‘Of course, Natasha, angel!

 You know we’d give our lives

 To make you happy!’

They bake and they brew;

 The worthy guests come,

 The bride is led to the feast,

 Her maids sing and weep;

 Then horses and a sledge

 

 With the groom – and all sit.

 The glasses ring and clatter,

 The toasting-cup is passed

 From hand to hand in tumult,

 The guests are drunk.

 

 Bridegroom

‘Friends, why is my fair bride

 Sad, why is she not

 Feasting and serving?’

 

The bride answers the groom:

‘I will tell you why

 As best I can. My soul

 Knows no rest, day and night

 I weep; an evil dream

 Oppresses me.’ Her father

 Says: ‘My dear child, tell us

 What your dream is.’

 

 ‘I dreamed,’ she says, ‘that I

 Went into a forest,

 It was late and dark;

 The moon was faintly

 Shining behind a cloud;

 I strayed from the path;

 Nothing stirred except

 The tops of the pine-trees.

 

‘And suddenly, as if

 I was awake, I saw

 A hut. I approach the hut

 And knock at the door

 -Silence. A prayer on my lips

 I open the door and enter.

 A candle burns. All

 Is silver and gold.’

 

Bridegroom

‘What is bad about that?

 It promises wealth.’

 

Bride

‘Wait, sir, I’ve not finished.

 Silently I gazed

 On the silver and gold,

 The cloths, the rugs, the silks

 From Novgorod, and I

 Was lost in wonder.

 

‘Then I heard a shout

 And a clatter of hoofs …

Someone has driven up

 To the porch. Quickly

 I slammed the door and hid

 Behind the stove. Now

 I hear many voices …

Twelve young men come in,

 

‘And with them is a girl,

 Pure and beautiful.

 They’ve taken no notice

 Of the ikons, they sit

 To the table without

 Praying or taking off

 Their hats. At the head,

 The eldest brother,

 

 At his right, the youngest;

 At his left, the girl.

 Shouts, laughs, drunken clamour …’

 

Bridegroom

‘That betokens merriment.’

 

Bride

‘Wait, sir, I’ve not finished.

 The drunken din goes on

 And grows louder still.

 Only the girl is sad.

 

‘She sits silent; neither

 Eating nor drinking;

 But sheds tears in plenty;

 The eldest brother

 Takes his knife and, whistling,

 Sharpens it; seizing her by

 The hair he kills her

 And cuts off her right hand.’

 

 ‘Why,’ says the groom, ‘this

 Is nonsense! Believe me,

 My love, your dream is not evil.’

She looks him in the eyes.

‘And from whose hand

 Does this ring come?’

The bride said. The whole throng

 Rose in the silence.

 

 With a clatter the ring

 Falls, and rolls along

 The floor. The groom blanches,

 Trembles. Confusion …

 ‘Seize him!’ the law commands.

 He’s bound, judged, put to death.

 Natasha is famous!

 Our song at an end.

By Alexander Pushkin

A fragment or not ?

 

Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

 

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

 

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

 

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me

That with music loud and long

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

                       By Samuel Coleridge

Poems Based on Myths

The Face that Launch’d a Thousand Ships

Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.
Her lips suck forth my soul: see where it flies!
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sack'd;
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colours on my plumed crest;
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appear'd to hapless Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms;
And none but thou shalt be my paramour!

                                                          By Christopher Marlowe

 

Siren Song

This is the one song everyone

would like to learn: the song

that is irresistible:

 

the song that forces men

to leap overboard in squadrons

even though they see the beached skulls

 

the song nobody knows

because anyone who has heard it

is dead, and the others can't remember.

 

Shall I tell you the secret

and if I do, will you get me

out of this bird suit?

 

I don't enjoy it here

squatting on this island

looking picturesque and mythical

 

with these two feathery maniacs,

I don't enjoy singing

this trio, fatal and valuable.

 

I will tell the secret to you,

to you, only to you.

Come closer. This song

 

is a cry for help: Help me!

Only you, only you can,

you are unique

 

at last. Alas

it is a boring song

but it works every time.

by Margaret Atwood This is the one song everyone

would like to learn: the song                          by

bybybb bbbbbbyyymm

that is irresistible:

 

the song that forces men

to leap overboard in squadrons

even though they see the beached skulls

 

the song nobody knows

because anyone who has heard it

is dead, and the others can't remember.

 

Shall I tell you the secret

and if I do, will you get me

out of this bird suit?

 

I don't enjoy it here

squatting on this island

looking picturesque and mythical

 

with these two feathery maniacs,

I don't enjoy singing

this trio, fatal and valuable.

 

I will tell the secret to you,

to you, only to you.

Come closer. This song

 

is a cry for help: Help me!

Only you, only you can,

you are unique

 

at last. Alas

it is a boring song

but it works every time.

 

                                  .