Anne Brontë

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

Anne Brontë Poems

1. A Fragment 12/31/2002
2. A Hymn 12/31/2002
3. A Prayer 1/3/2003
4. A Prisoner In A Dungeon Deep 12/31/2002
5. A Reminiscence 5/10/2001
6. A Voice From The Dungeon 12/31/2002
7. A Word To The Calvinists 12/31/2002
8. A Word To The 'Elect' 12/31/2002
9. Alexander And Zenobia 12/31/2002
10. An Orphan's Lament 12/31/2002
11. Appeal 12/31/2002
12. Call Me Away 12/31/2002
13. Confidence 12/31/2002
14. Despondency 12/31/2002
15. Dreams 12/31/2002
16. Farewell 12/31/2002
17. Fluctuations 12/31/2002
18. Fragment 12/31/2002
19. Gloomily The Clouds 12/31/2002
20. Home 12/31/2002
21. If This Be All 12/31/2002
22. In Memory Of A Happy Day In February 12/31/2002
23. Last Lines 12/31/2002
24. Lines Composed In A Wood On A Windy Day 12/31/2002
25. Lines Inscribed On The Wall Of A Dungeon In The Southern P Of I 12/31/2002
26. Lines Written At Thorp Green 12/31/2002
27. Lines Written From Home 12/31/2002
28. Memory 12/31/2002
29. Mirth And Mourning 12/31/2002
30. Monday Night May 11th 1846 / Domestic Peace 12/31/2002
31. Music On Christmas Morning 12/31/2002
32. My God! O Let Me Call Thee Mine! 12/31/2002
33. My Soul Is Awakened 1/3/2003
34. Night 12/31/2002
35. Oh, They Have Robbed Me Of The Hope 12/31/2002
36. Parting Address From Z.Z. To A.E. 12/31/2002
37. Past Days 12/31/2002
38. Power Of Love 12/31/2002
39. Retirement 12/31/2002
40. Self Communion 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 2

Come to the banquet -- triumph in your songs!
Strike up the chords -- and sing of Victory!
The oppressed have risen to redress their wrongs;
The Tyrants are o'erthrown; the Land is free!
The Land is free! Aye, shout it forth once more;
Is she not red with her oppressors' gore?
We are her champions -- shall we not rejoice?
Are not the tyrants' broad domains our own?
Then wherefore triumph with a faltering voice;

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