Anne Brontë

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

poet Anne Brontë
#162 on top 500 poets

Comments about Anne Brontë

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  • Vincent Zirpoli (1/26/2019 12:54:00 PM)

    the poem talks about someone who evidently was reaching into a rose bush and scratched his hand;

    1 person liked.
    		1 person did not like.
  • Manideep (9/9/2018 9:13:00 AM)

    I love the lines composed on a windy day

    0 person liked.
    		2 person did not like.
  • Mayank Shah (5/18/2018 9:17:00 AM)

    Nice....kindly check my poem give your views about it

    0 person liked.
    		2 person did not like.
  • Wanu Xwl (5/10/2017 3:48:00 PM)

    Anne Bronte is my favourite poet and her language uses in poems is attractive

    2 person liked.
    		3 person did not like.
  • Loyo Rita (3/12/2013 5:14:00 PM)

    Anne is one of my favourite writers. Love her masterpiece 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall'.
    P.S. The picture used here is the portrait of Anne's sister Charlotte, not Anne herself. Please change it.

    19 person liked.
    		12 person did not like.
  • Loyo Rita (3/12/2013 5:12:00 PM)

    Anne is one of my favourite writers. Love her masterpiece 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall'.
    P.S. The picture used here is the portrait of Anne's sister Charlotte, not Anne herself. Please change it.

    16 person liked.
    		8 person did not like.
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Best Poem of Anne Brontë

Dreams

While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye
With scenes and pleasures of its own.
Then I may cherish at my breast
An infant's form beloved and fair,
May smile and soothe it into rest
With all a Mother's fondest care.

How sweet to feel its helpless form
Depending thus on me alone!
And while I hold it safe and warm
What bliss to think it is my own!

And glances then may meet my eyes
That daylight never showed to me;
What raptures in my bosom rise,
Those earnest looks of love to see, ...

Read the full of Dreams

Z---------'s Dream

I dreamt last night; and in that dream
My boyhood's heart was mine again;
These latter years did nothing seem
With all their mingled joy and pain,
Their thousand deeds of good and ill,
Their hopes which time did not fulfil,
Their glorious moments of success,
Their love that closed in bitterness,
Their hate that grew with growing strength,

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