Anne Brontë

(7 January 1820 – 28 May 1849 / Thornton, West Riding of Yorkshire, England)

Anne Brontë Poems

1. Vanitas Vanitatis, Etc. 12/31/2002
2. Verses By Lady Geralda 12/31/2002
3. Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas 12/31/2002
4. The Three Guides 12/31/2002
5. To Cowper 12/31/2002
6. To -------- 12/31/2002
7. The North Wind 12/31/2002
8. Stanzas 12/31/2002
9. Z---------'s Dream 12/31/2002
10. Song 2 12/31/2002
11. The Penitent 12/31/2002
12. Lines Written At Thorp Green 12/31/2002
13. Weep Not Too Much 12/31/2002
14. Verses To A Child 12/31/2002
15. Parting Address From Z.Z. To A.E. 12/31/2002
16. Mirth And Mourning 12/31/2002
17. The Student's Serenade 12/31/2002
18. Severed And Gone 12/31/2002
19. Lines Inscribed On The Wall Of A Dungeon In The Southern P Of I 12/31/2002
20. In Memory Of A Happy Day In February 12/31/2002
21. Views Of Life 12/31/2002
22. The Parting (2) 12/31/2002
23. Song 12/31/2002
24. Yes Thou Art Gone 12/31/2002
25. My God! O Let Me Call Thee Mine! 12/31/2002
26. Self Communion 12/31/2002
27. Lines Written From Home 12/31/2002
28. Last Lines 12/31/2002
29. Self-Congratulation 12/31/2002
30. Fragment 12/31/2002
31. Memory 12/31/2002
32. Music On Christmas Morning 12/31/2002
33. Fluctuations 12/31/2002
34. The Arbour 12/31/2002
35. A Word To The Calvinists 12/31/2002
36. Lines Composed In A Wood On A Windy Day 12/31/2002
37. The Parting 12/31/2002
38. Power Of Love 12/31/2002
39. Night 12/31/2002
40. An Orphan's Lament 12/31/2002
Best Poem of Anne Brontë

Farewell

Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.
O, beautiful, and full of grace!
If thou hadst never met mine eye,
I had not dreamed a living face
Could fancied charms so far outvie.

If I may ne'er behold again
That form and face so dear to me,
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain
Preserve, for aye, their memory.

That voice, the magic of whose tone
Can wake an echo in my breast,
Creating ...

Read the full of Farewell

Song

We know where deepest lies the snow,
And where the frost-winds keenest blow,
O'er every mountain's brow,
We long have known and learnt to bear
The wandering outlaw's toil and care,
But where we late were hunted, there
Our foes are hunted now.
We have their princely homes, and they
To our wild haunts are chased away,

[Hata Bildir]