Poems About Anne 

This poem was written by Charlotte on 21 June 1849, following Anne's death the previous month (28 May):

On the Death of Anne Brontë
By Charlotte Brontë


There's little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave;
I've lived the parting hour to see
Of one I would have died to save.

Calmly to watch the failing breath,
Wishing each sigh might be the last;
Longing to see the shade of death
O'er those beloved features cast;

The cloud, the stillness that must part
The darling of my life from me;
And then to thank God from my heart,
To thank Him well and fervently;

Although I knew that we had lost
The hope and glory of our life;
And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,
Must bear alone the weary strife.


Christopher WisemanThe following poem is a recent creation by Scarborough poet, Christopher Wiseman (pictured opposite). It is taken from his book of poems 'Remembering Mr. Fox' (Sono Nis Press, 1995).

Remarking on his inspiration for the poem, Chris writes: 'It goes back to the 1980s, when there wasn't a regular supply of flowers on her grave from the Corporation, and yet someone always, always, had placed flowers there, even in the worst weather. I noticed this over several years, and wondered who on earth it was. The only bright colours in the whole graveyard in winter. Now it seems permanently flowered and kept . . .'

Anne Brontë's Grave - The Flowers
By Christopher Wiseman


Is it some fan who knows by heart
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, and, hurt,

Brings petals to soften grief?
Weather - Gales, snow, anything - doesn't bother

Whoever it is. Midwinter, or sun
To flay the skin - flowers. The illusion

That they spring from deep down in your grave
With ballad magic. I stop and have

To look each time I climb the hill
Looming over Scarborough, where, ill,

You came back to die. The Grand Hotel
Stands there now. Its "Bronte Bar." A fall.

But up here, high over the bay,
The shocking flowers come fresh each day,

And folk, pulled here by the colour, cluster
Close around you. Always the weak sister,

The one without the real talent.
A child stoops quietly for the scent.


Andreas FrickeHere is a poem about Anne by Andreas Fricke (pictured): presented initially in its original form - in his native, German, language; and beneath it, a translated (to English!) version.

Andreas welcomes e-mail contact: you can write to him at:

schwups@gmx.net

Für Anne (ein Gedicht)


In grüner Hügel Sonnenschein,
die Welt so weit,
und Stille treibt
den Regenbogen dort am Horizont
zum Wolkenhain,
vergess´ner Tage Stimme.

In Wind und Sturm,
hält Blitz, hält Donner plötzlich inne,
und durch getäuschter Sinne
Nebel ist mir dann, als säh´ ich dort
im Wolkenturm
über den Hügeln Dein Gesicht
mir wetterleuchten.

Und aus der feuchten, kühlen Erde,
drüben am Pfarrhaus steigt Dein Licht,
so schmale Hände,
fliegend über ein Gedicht
das ich nie lesen werde,
und mir ist, als ob ich sterbe,
doch meine Klage hörst Du nicht.

(Andreas Fricke, 20.04.99)

. . . and in English:

To Anne (a poem)

On sunny hills
The world seems wide
And softly whelming silence glides
From rainbows far to greet the place
Where distant voices gently raise.

Through stormwind´s blow
And thunder´s roar
I see your face beneath the shore
Where clouds are gliding high and free
On starlit grounds, so dear to me.

And from the Parson´s moistrous soil
A light comes gleaming up the wall
And fingers, small, yet pale and white
So gentle over lyrics glide
I´ll never have the chance to read,
left but with mourning here indeed.

(20th April 1999, Andreas Fricke)


Also by Andreas - 'a fragment':

To Anne (a fragment)


There they were, the green hills, grassy and gleaming in the sunlight,
which sometimes slightly looked through the hurrying clouds in the sky,
casting a magic spell over the landscape you once lived in, in this big,
cold, heavy stonebuilt house in England, Yorkshire, which nowadays is a
museum and still can´t tell your real life´s story, I suppose.

Why then do I believe to know you better than the others, just because a
glance of your dark eyes, your small face looking from this painting
touched me and enchanted me the very moment I first looked upon ?

Is it because I feel like hearing your voice sounding in the winds over
the meadows, like being near you looking at the restless sea, touching
with all my prayers a glimpse of your deep confidence and belief ?

Now you´re smiling, calling me a fool, but why then do you look so
charming through the clouds above me, why are you dancing down from every
rainbow, teasing my mind with rays of light ?

Sending a smile while I am weeping, a poem, when my mind´s asleep,
carrying my thoughts away in the wind, to unseen places, magic castles
between grassy blades, and still don´t really let me be with you ?

Sometimes I´m dreaming of your company, holding your hand and flying off
the shore, the warm sound of your voice in cloudy skies and spraying
waters, and if you knew that I would love you dearly, would even then
you´ll leave me here alone on this green hill, apart from all, the real
world roaming far behind ?

Would you be playing still with winds and raindrops, drawing wet lines
like tears onto my face, forever free, forever flown up to eternal spaces,
whatever I may say, you´d stay forever out of reach ?

(19th April 1999, Andreas Fricke)


A poem for Anne written on 28th May 2003 by Regina Orlando of Union NJ USA.

"SWEET ANGEL FAIRE"
By Regina Orlando


She sleeps in peace,
in her bed near the sea,
Sweet angel faire,
the joy of our rising,
the hope in our despair,
the strength in our weakness,
though she be gone from the earth.
On the wind and the waves of Scarborough strand
her spirit flies free
o'er the deep blue green sea so dear to her heart.
Forever she will be there, a part,
Our Sweet Angel Faire!


A poem for Anne written on 23 March 2003 by Sarah Barrett (UK)

"Dear Anne..."
By Sarah Barrett


What was it like my love
To see that last ever sunset?
Darkness falls upon your face
Your fate with death is finally met
Thy hidden smile is smiling
Your tired eyes are closing
Take Courage you told her
The thought of her alone forever.

Last journey to a precious shore
Walk amongst the sand and waves
In God you trust your life abide
Peace and joy is in heaven saves
Your painful thoughts that hurt too much
Dearest duties done, for each and everyone
Ones path to eternal sleep is close
Quiet and still not much to say
He takes your hand, you love the most
And leads you along glories, starry way.


A poem about Anne written by Kevin Cahill of Cork, Ireland, on 3rd October 2003

ANNE BRONTË IN DEATH
By Kevin Cahill


The memories come and the memories go
As the sea surges on the strand
Dear Anne the youngest steps ever more slow
And takes her last look at the land

Last look at the land of pestilence and woe
Where sister and dreamer close their eyes
They have bowed down to the hounds of sorrow
O they are better off out of sight

And you gentle hind stolen from your mother
And left to the demons of your fate
You wintered and soothed your sibling brother
You were tested but did not hate

Ah grace you had in your quaint old rhyme
Where angels danced round life and love
And crept out death's dance as you did divine
Your strange destiny from above

And life you knew without love could not be led
Yet blushing and bashful you held your peace
'Til peacelessly you & William broke bread
With secret hearts locked with lost keys

And this is no life when life but circles the grave
So you straighten up for the doctor's looks
And not complain but be trustful and brave
With eyes the colour of mysticism books

Now you, silver exemplar, at the Gates of Death
Have kept your Vow - the greatest prize
Sinking softly out in the quietude of Christ
Having never lost the daydream of your eyes.



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