poetry?

[veronic]

Can it really be that I'm the only one who admires Emily for her poetry as well?

[mono]

No, veronic, you do not stand alone.
I love all of the Brontë sisters for their numerous talents in fiction and poetry, and I found their false names especially witty: Ellis Bell (Emily), Currer Bell (Charlotte), and Acton Bell (Anne).
Though I have difficulty judging this, I probably admired Emily the most out of the Brontë sisters. One poem that I particularly enjoyed:

Remembrance

Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee!
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my Only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-wearing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains on Angora's shore;
Resting their wings there heath and fern-leaves cover
That noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the eart, and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring -
Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee
While the World's tide is bearing me along:
Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong.

No other Sun has lightened up my heaven;
No other Star has ever shone for me:
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given -
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perished
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy;

Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine!

And ever yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dar not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?

[veronic]

I was so happy to read your post. Emily is certainly my favourite, as a poetess for sure.
Actually she is the first true piece of poetry I ever read, and I remember the first poem was 'The Horrors of Sleep':

Sleep brings no joy to me,
Remembrance never dies,
My soul is given to mystery,
And lives in sighs.

Sleep brings no rest to me;
The shadows of the dead
My wakening eyes may never see
Surround my bed.

Sleep bring no hope to me,
In soundest sleep they come,
And with their doleful imag'ry
Deepen the gloom.

Sleep brings no strength to me,
No power renewed to brave
I only sail a wilder sea,
A darker wave.

Sleep brings be friend to me
To soothe and aid to bear;
They all gaze on, how scornfully,
And I despair.

Sleep brings no wish to fret
My harassed heart beneath;
My only wish is to forget
In endless sleep of death.

*Ever since then I've been in love with poetry...

'Remembrance' was probably the first to move me in a way I did not know was possible. It is, I agree, an amazing poem.
Now that I moved to England I finally laid my hands on a *book* of Emily's poetry, ever so exciting.

[mono]

Actually she is the first true piece of poetry I ever read

Wow, that sounds really amazing - the first poet you read. I cannot remember the first piece of poetry I read, besides nursery rhymes, and the like, but maybe Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe, or Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Anyway, through another website I sometimes frequent for its collections in poetry, I found a few more poems by Emily Brontë on the Internet for anyone interested. One among them, following the link, with a few more:

The Night Is Darkening Round Me

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me:
I will not, cannot go.

[veronic]

There's another page with her poetry, pretty rich of it in fact:
http://www.emule.com/poetry/?page=top_poems

And here's another poem I admire:
(btw mono, you have chosen two of my favourite till now )

Come, walk with me,
There's only thee
To bless my spirit now -
We used to love on winter nights
To wander through the snow;
Can we not woo back old delights?
The clouds rush dark and wild
They fleck with shade our mountain heights
The same as long ago
And on the horizon rest at last
In looming masses piled;
While moonbeams flash and fly so fast
We scarce can say they smiled -

Come walk with me, come walk with me;
We were not once so few
But Death has stolen our company
As sunshine steals the dew -
He took them one by one and we
Are left the only two;
So closer would my feelings twine
Because they have no stay but thine -

'Nay call me not - it may not be
Is human love so true?
Can Friendship's flower droop on for years
And then revive anew?
No, though the soil be wet with tears,
How fair soe'er it grew
The vital sap once perished
Will never flow again
And surer than that dwelling dread,
The narrow dungeon of the dead
Time parts the hearts of men -'

[Flora]

I do not know much about poetry in general, though I really enjoyed Emilys. Especilaly To Imagination, which I found on this site...

[frengo]

I really love this poem by Emily, and I didn't find it on the previous site:

I'm happiest when most away
I can bear my soul from its home of clay
on a windy night when the moon is bright
and the eye can wander through worlds of light

When I am not and none beside
nor earth nor sea nor cloudless sky
but only spirit wandering wide
through infinite immensity.

Hope you enjoy,
Francesco

[summer grace]

I think I love her for her poetry mainly; she was a really great poet!

[NikolaiI]

I've just been reading poetry by Emily, and I think it's great. I really love the first lines to "Faith and Despondency"

"The winter wind is loud and wild,
Come close to me, my darling child;
Forsake thy books, and mateless play;
And, while the night is gathering gray,
We'll talk its pensive hours away;--

It's simple and beautiful. I'm still working on the rest of the poem.