Dreams
by Anne Brontë
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,
To feel my hand so kindly prest,
To know myself beloved at last,
To think my heart has found a rest,
My life of solitude is past!
But then to wake and find it flown,
The dream of happiness destroyed,
To find myself unloved, alone,
What tongue can speak the dreary void?
A heart whence warm affections flow,
Creator, thou hast given to me,
And am I only thus to know
How sweet the joys of love would be?
In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Vanity
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like Ocean tides
And 'ere one generation dies,
Another in its place shall rise
That, sinking soon into the grave,
Others succeed, like wave on wave
And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day,
And, hastening onward to the West,
He nightly sinks, but not to rest
Returning to the eastern skies,
Again to light us, he must rise
And still the restless wind comes forth
Now blowing keenly from the North
Now from the South, the East, the West,
For ever changing, ne'er at rest
The fountains, gushing from the hills,
Supply the ever-running rills
The thirsty rivers drink their store,
And bear it rolling to the shore,
But still the ocean craves for more
'Tis endless labour everywhere!
Sound cannot satisfy the ear,
Light cannot fill the craving eye,
Nor riches half our wants supply
Pleasure but doubles future pain,
And joy brings sorrow in her train
Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth
What does she in this weary earth?
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ,
Death comes, our labour to destroy
To snatch untasted cups away,
For which we toiled every day
What, then, remains for wretched man?
To use life's comforts while he can,
Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows,
Assist his friends, forgive his foes
Trust God, and keep his statutes still,
Upright and firm, through good and ill
Thankful for all that God has given,
Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven
Knowing that earthly joys decay,
But hoping through the darkest day
Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day
My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
And carried aloft on the winds of the breeze;
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.
The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.
I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!
Yes I will take a cheerful tone
And feign to share their heartless glee,
But I would rather weep alone
Than laugh amid their revelry.
I just finished Agnes Grey, the debut novel by Anne Brontë, aka the other Brontë sister, and it's both brilliant and extremely Dark Academia.
The title character is a governess who is sent to instruct a family of bratty, psychopathic children, then when she's dismissed for failing to improve them, she gets a position teaching two manipulative, vain teenage girls. There's a major theme of animal cruelty running through it, where the corrupt, immoral characters frequently torture and abuse animals and the kind moral characters treat them well.
It's not as dramatic and sweeping as Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights, and most of the conflict has to do with the protagonist's internal struggles, so it's not as widely celebrated as the works of her more famous sisters, but it's a beautiful novel with a charming style that I would easily compare to Austen at her finest--indeed, it reminded me greatly of Mansfield Park.
Disclosure: I'm not very technical or in depth in my analysis of books like some of you so feel free to offer some more context or academic insight. I'm very interested to see what will come up in any discussions. Also, I haven't read every novel written by the Brontë sisters: other than The Tenant, I've read Emily's Wuthering Heights and Charlotte's Jane Eyre and love both.
I first heard about The Tenant on Woman's Hour (UK radio show) months ago when an interviewee said it was very underrated. It's ahead of it's time, dealing with domestic abuse and infidelity and the taboo faced by women at the time of leaving your husband and being a single parent (it was first published in 1848).
I sympathised with Helen. For many of the scenes with her and Arthur I was reminded of that uncomfortable feeling of being on a street at night and seeing an intimidating person or group at a distance. You're nervous and on edge but must keep your guard and not show fear. Helen could only do what was expected of her by society: stiff upper lip. You're married to someone with property and that's the important thing.
In the scenes with Arthur and their son, the thought of Arthur Snr manipulating Arthur Jnr to be like him - treating his wife like dirt, gambling and drinking - was sickening. Arthur's behaviour made my blood boil. I hate that she called her son Arthur by the way, but I suppose that shows how persuaded towards him she was at first.
Helen's account of her life married to Arthur and her eventual escape impassioned such emotion in me that it was almost like reading a thriller.
Gilbert's character annoyed me at the beginning, even as he started to fall for Helen. I found him self-centred and impatient. But towards the end I was rooting for him and could feel the adrenaline kick as he rushed to Grassdale to win her hand!
I love Helen's character. I love that she was unafraid to show her feelings for Gilbert once she realised them. I love that she paints! This is something else that was seen as controversial in much of the 1800s: a woman making a living selling her pictures!
I'd love to know if you enjoyed The Tenant as much as I did. What did you like about it? And what do you think about Charlotte preventing its publication for a while after Anne's death? Was it a fear of the controversial or was it jealousy? Thank you for your responses!
On January 17th 1820 Anne Brontë was born. She is best known for writing Agnes Grey.
If there is an author you'd like to see added to the Happy Birthday! Posts please message /u/Chtorrr. The full birthday list can be found here
>Yes I will take a cheerful tone
>
>And feign to share their heartless glee,
>
>But I would rather weep alone
>
>Than laugh amid their revelry.
On January 17th 1820 Anne Brontë was born. She is best known for writing Agnes Grey.
If there is an author you'd like to see added to the Happy Birthday! Posts please message /u/Chtorrr. The full birthday list can be found here
On January 17th 1820 Anne Brontë was born. She is best known for writing Agnes Grey.
If there is an author you'd like to see added to the Happy Birthday! Posts please message /u/Chtorrr. The full birthday list can be found here
On January 17th 1820 Anne Brontë was born. She is best known for writing Agnes Grey.
If there is an author you'd like to see added to the Happy Birthday! Posts please message /u/Chtorrr. The full birthday list can be found here
On January 17th 1820 Anne Brontë was born. She is best known for writing Agnes Grey.
If there is an author you'd like to see added to the Happy Birthday! Posts please message /u/Chtorrr. The full birthday list can be found here
