Treasure Island

Anne Brontë

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

Call Me Away


Call me away; there's nothing here,
That wins my soul to stay;
Then let me leave this prospect drear,
And hasten far away.
To our beloved land I'll flee,
Our land of thought and soul,
Where I have roved so oft with thee,
Beyond the world's control.

I'll sit and watch those ancient trees,
Those Scotch firs dark and high;
I'll listen to the eerie breeze,
Among their branches sigh.

The glorious moon shines far above;
How soft her radiance falls,
On snowy heights, and rock, and grove;
And yonder palace walls!

Who stands beneath yon fir trees high?
A youth both slight and fair,
Whose bright and restless azure eye
Proclaims him known to care,
Though fair that brow, it is not smooth;
Though small those features, yet in sooth
Stern passion has been there.

Now on the peaceful moon are fixed
Those eyes so glistening bright,
But trembling teardrops hang betwixt,
And dim the blessed light.

Though late the hour, and keen the blast,
That whistles round him now,
Those raven locks are backward cast,
To cool his burning brow.

His hands above his heaving breast
Are clasped in agony --
'O Father! Father! let me rest!
And call my soul to thee!

I know 'tis weakness thus to pray;
But all this cankering care --
This doubt tormenting night and day
Is more than I can bear!

With none to comfort, none to guide
And none to strengthen me.
Since thou my only friend hast died --
I've pined to follow thee!
Since thou hast died! And did he live
What comfort could his counsel give --
To one forlorn like me?

Would he my Idol's form adore --
Her soul, her glance, her tone?
And say, "Forget for ever more
Her kindred and thine own;
Let dreams of her thy peace destroy,
Leave every other hope and joy
And live for her alone"?'

He starts, he smiles, and dries the tears,
Still glistening on his cheek,
The lady of his soul appears,
And hark! I hear her speak --

'Aye, dry thy tears; thou wilt not weep --
While I am by thy side --
Our foes all day their watch may keep
But cannot thus divide
Such hearts as ours; and we tonight
Together in the clear moon's light
Their malice will deride.

No fear our present bliss shall blast
And sorrow we'll defy.
Do thou forget the dreary past,
The dreadful future I.'

Forget it? Yes, while thou art by
I think of nought but thee,
'Tis only when thou art not nigh
Remembrance tortures me.

But such a lofty soul to find,
And such a heart as thine,
In such a glorious form enshrined
And still to call thee mine --
Would be for earth too great a bliss,
Without a taint of woe like this,
Then why should I repine?

Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read poems about / on: moon, raven, father, future, passion, sorrow, together, light, peace, friend, joy, fear, hope, alone, dark, tree, smile, dream

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Call Me Away by Anne Brontë )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. A Dream Within A Dream
    Edgar Allan Poe
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou

New Poems

  1. The Continuous Life, Mark Strand
  2. I heard your silence, Asma Riaz Khan
  3. A returned love, Xena von Davydoff
  4. To Fight or To Allow~, Monk E. Biz
  5. Suicide, Michael McParland
  6. So It Was, Michael McParland
  7. ZZ US Government Tree Killers, Saiom Shriver
  8. Right Nest To Me, Michael McParland
  9. Oh Pity You, Michael McParland
  10. No More Hope, Michael McParland

Poem of the Day

poet Helen Hunt Jackson

The month of carnival of all the year,
When Nature lets the wild earth go its way,
And spend whole seasons on a single day.
The spring-time holds her white and purple dear;
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]