Emily Jane Brontë

(30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848 / Thornton / Yorkshire)

Hope


Hope was but a timid friend;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men.

She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars, one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away!

Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping;
If I listened, she would cease.

False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round;

Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!

Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

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  • Rookie Panos Papalos (4/13/2014 9:54:00 AM)

    Emily's lyricism is unique: simplistically fascinating.
    Hope dissected through vivid, agonizing and breathtaking pictures.
    So young yet so pensive! (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Christian Eliab Ratnam (5/21/2005 10:06:00 AM)

    Miss Emily Bronte has once again touched my heart with her self-forgetting use of spellbinding english. Hope which sometimes seems not present has indeed been given an excuse for. Hope's charactor so complex by itself has been potrayed by Miss Bronte in simplicity and wit. (Report) Reply

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