Lines Inscribed On The Wall Of A Dungeon In The Southern P Of I

Though not a breath can enter here,
I know the wind blows fresh and free;
I know the sun is shining clear,
Though not a gleam can visit me.

They thought while I in darkness lay,
'Twere pity that I should not know
How all the earth is smiling gay;
How fresh the vernal breezes blow.

They knew, such tidings to impart
Would pierce my weary spirit through,
And could they better read my heart,
They'd tell me, she was smiling too.

They need not, for I know it well,
Methinks I see her even now;
No sigh disturbs her bosom's swell,
No shade o'ercasts her angel brow.

Unmarred by grief her angel voice,
Whence sparkling wit, and wisdom flow:
And others in its sound rejoice,
And taste the joys I must not know,

Drink rapture from her soft dark eye,
And sunshine from her heavenly smile;
On wings of bliss their moments fly,
And I am pining here the while!

Oh! tell me, does she never give
To my distress a single sigh?
She smiles on them, but does she grieve
One moment, when they are not by?

When she beholds the sunny skies,
And feels the wind of heaven blow;
Has she no tear for him that lies
In dungeon gloom, so far below?

While others gladly round her press
And at her side their hours beguile,
Has she no sigh for his distress
Who cannot see a single smile

Nor hear one word nor read a line
That her beloved hand might write,
Who banished from her face must pine
Each day a long and lonely night?

Alexander April 1826

Anne Bronte

Anne Brontë was an English novelist and poet, the youngest member of the Brontë literary family. She wrote two novels, 'Agnes Grey' and 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,' which are considered classics of English literature. Anne worked as a governess before turning to writing, and her works often explore themes of women's independence and social criticism. Despite her early death at the age of 29, her contributions to literature, particularly her progressive views on women's issues, have been increasingly recognized and appreciated.

Anne Bronte

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The Parting

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English

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Call Me Away

Call me away; there's nothing here,
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Beyond the world's control.

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Weep Not Too Much

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Alexander And Zenobia

Fair was the evening and brightly the sun
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It was Arabia's distant land
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One was a boy of just fourteen
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A Voice From The Dungeon

I'm buried now; I've done with life;
I've done with hate, revenge and strife;
I've done with joy, and hope and love
And all the bustling world above.

Long have I dwelt forgotten here
In pining woe and dull despair;
This place of solitude and gloom
Must be my dungeon and my tomb.

No hope, no pleasure can I find:
I am grown weary of my mind;
Often in balmy sleep I try
To gain a rest from misery,

And in one hour of calm repose
To find a respite from my woes,
But dreamless sleep is not for me
And I am still in misery.

I dream of liberty, 'tis true,
But then I dream of sorrow too,
Of blood and guilt and horrid woes,
Of tortured friends and happy foes;

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