Anne Brontë (1820 - 1849)

Anne Brontë was a British novelist and poet, the youngest member of the Brontë literary family. 

The daughter of a poor Irish clergyman in the Church of England, Anne Brontë lived most of her life with her family at the parish of Haworth on the Yorkshire moors. For a couple of years she went to a boarding school. At the age of nineteen, she left Haworth working as a governess between 1839 and 1845. After leaving her teaching position, she fulfilled her literary ambitions. She wrote a volume of poetry with her sisters (Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, 1846) and in short succession she wrote two novels. Agnes Grey, based upon her experiences as a governess, was published in 1847. Her second and last novel, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall appeared in 1848. Anne's life was cut short with her death of pulmonary tuberculosis when she was 29 years old. 

Anne Brontë is somewhat overshadowed by her more famous sisters, Charlotte, author of four novels including Jane Eyre; and Emily, author of Wuthering Heights. Anne's two novels, written in a sharp and ironic style, are completely different from the romanticism followed by her sisters. She wrote in a realistic, rather than a romantic style. Her novels, like those of her sisters, have become classics of English literature. 

Dreams

 by Anne Brontë

While on my lonely couch I lie,

I seldom feel myself alone,

For fancy fills my dreaming eye

With scenes and pleasures of its own. 

Then I may cherish at my breast

An infant's form beloved and fair,

May smile and soothe it into rest

With all a Mother's fondest care. 

How sweet to feel its helpless form

Depending thus on me alone! 

And while I hold it safe and warm

What bliss to think it is my own! 

And glances then may meet my eyes

That daylight never showed to me; 

What raptures in my bosom rise,

Those earnest looks of love to see, 

To feel my hand so kindly prest,

To know myself beloved at last,

To think my heart has found a rest,

My life of solitude is past! 

But then to wake and find it flown,

The dream of happiness destroyed,

To find myself unloved, alone,

What tongue can speak the dreary void? 

A heart whence warm affections flow,

Creator, thou hast given to me,

And am I only thus to know

How sweet the joys of love would be? 

Home 

How brightly glistening in the sun

The woodland ivy plays!

While yonder beeches from their barks

Reflect his silver rays. 

That sun surveys a lovely scene

From softly smiling skies;

And wildly through unnumbered trees

The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,

And now in distance dies.

But give me back my barren hills

Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees

Can yield an answering swell,

But where a wilderness of heath

Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide,

With groves of evergreen,

Long winding walks, and borders trim,

And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot,

With grey walls compassed round,

Where knotted grass neglected lies,

And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high

Invites the foot to roam,

And though its halls are fair within -- 

Oh, give me back my HOME!

A Fragment 

'Maiden, thou wert thoughtless once

Of beauty or of grace,

Simple and homely in attire

Careless of form and face.

Then whence this change, and why so oft

Dost smooth thy hazel hair?

And wherefore deck thy youthful form

With such unwearied care? 

'Tell us ­- and cease to tire our ears

With yonder hackneyed strain ­-

Why wilt thou play those simple tunes

So often o'er again?'

'Nay, gentle friends, I can but say

That childhood's thoughts are gone.

Each year its own new feelings brings

And years move swiftly on, 

And for these little simple airs,

I love to play them o'er ­-

So much I dare not promise now

To play them never more.'

I answered and it was enough;

They turned them to depart;

They could not read my secret thoughts

Nor see my throbbing heart. 

I've noticed many a youthful form

Upon whose changeful face

The inmost workings of the soul

The gazer's eye might trace.

The speaking eye, the changing lip, 

The ready blushing cheek,

The smiling or beclouded brow

Their different feelings speak. 

But, thank God! you might gaze on mine

For hours and never know

The secret changes of my soul

From joy to bitter woe.

Last night, as we sat round the fire

Conversing merrily,

We heard without approaching steps

Of one well known to me. 

There was no trembling in my voice,

No blush upon my cheek,

No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,

Of hope or joy to speak;

But O my spirit burned within,

My heart beat thick and fast.

He came not nigh ­- he went away

And then my joy was past. 

And yet my comrades marked it not,

My voice was still the same;

They saw me smile, and o'er my face ­-

No signs of sadness came;

They little knew my hidden thoughts

And they will never know

The anguish of my drooping heart,

The bitter aching woe!