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The Complete Poetry of Emily Brontë

e-book


Emily Brontë is most famous for her novel Wuthering Heights, but she started with writing poetry, which was her greatest love until the end of her life. Her poems later found regard as poetic genius.

Contents:

Faith and Despondency

Stars

The Philosopher

Remembrance

A Death-Scene

My Lady's Grave

Anticipation

The Prisoner

Hope

A Day Dream

To Imagination

How Clear She Shines

Sympathy

Plead for Me

Self-Interrogation

Death

Stanzas to —

Honour's Martyr

Stanzas

My Comforter

The Old Stoic

A Little While, a Little While

The Bluebell

Loud Without the Wind Was Roaring

Shall Earth No More Inspire Thee

The Night-Wind

'Aye—There It Is! It Wakes To-Night

Love and Friendship

The Elder's Rebuke

The Wanderer From the Fold

Warning and Reply

Last Words

The Lady to Her Guitar

The Two Children

The Visionary

Encouragement

Stanzas

No Coward Soul Is Mine

O God of heaven!

⁠Lord of Elbe, on Elbe hill

Cold, clear, and blue the morning heaven

Tell me, tell me, smiling child

High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending

The night of storms has past

I saw thee, child, one summer day

The battle had passed from the height

Alone I sat; the summer day

The night is darkening round me

I'll come when thou art saddest

I would have touched the heavenly key

Now trust a heart that trusts in you

Sleep brings no joy to me

Strong I stand, though I have borne

O Mother! I am not regretting

Awake, awake! how loud the stormy morning

O wander not so far away!

Why do I hate that lone green dell?

Gleneden's Dream

It's over now; I've known it all

⁠This shall be thy lullaby

'Twas one of those dark, cloudy days

Douglas Ride

⁠What rider up Gobeloin's glen

⁠Geraldine, the moon is shining

Where were ye all? and where wert thou?

Light up thy halls! 'Tis closing day

O dream, where art thou now?

How still, how happy! These are words

The night was dark, yet winter breathed

The Absent One…

To the Bluebell

The busy day has hurried by

And now the house dog stretched once more

Come hither, child; who gifted thee…

Emily Brontë: Biography by Robinson