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!
Emily's lyricism is unique: simplistically fascinating. Hope dissected through vivid, agonizing and breathtaking pictures. So young yet so pensive!
She would sing while I was weeping; If I listened, she would cease. Can closely associate with these lines. Indeed hope is a jolly pal for an aching soul. she would balm with kindness, enlightening our souls.
A unique experience of a poetry here I enjoyed. Great.
...she whispered peace. Nice poem! Well communicated. Sylva
In a nutshell this poem epitomises how fate has dealt Emily Bronte a cruel hand ✋.
She would sing whe I would be crying... sadistic pleasure! !
She would sing while I was weeping; If I listened, she would cease. Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven, Went, and ne'er returned again!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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.