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

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,

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