Hope

Hope was but a timid friend-

She sat without my grated den

Watching how my fate would tend

Even as selfish-hearted men.

She was cruel in her fear.

Through the bars, one dreary day,

I looked out to see her there

And she turned her face away!

Like a false guard false watch keeping

Still in strife she whispered peace;

She would sing while I was weeping,

If I listened, she would cease.

False she was, and unrelenting.

When my last joys strewed the ground

Even sorrow saw repenting

Those sad relics scattered round;

Hope - whose whisper would have given

Balm to all that frenzied pain -

Stretched her wings and soared to heaven;

Went- and ne'er returned again!

Emily Brontë

Emily Brontë (born July 30, 1818, Thornton, Yorkshire, England—died December 19, 1848, Haworth, Yorkshire) English novelist and poet who produced but one novel, Wuthering Heights (1847), a highly imaginative work of passion and hate set on the Yorkshire moors. Emily was perhaps the greatest of the three Brontë sisters, but the record of her life is extremely meagre, for she was silent and reserved and left no correspondence of interest, and her single novel darkens rather than solves the mystery of her spiritual existence. Emily went on to write almost 200 poems in her life but only a small fraction were published in her life time (Brownson). Her only novel,Wuthering Heights, is one of her most famous works. Emily was often seen as a very strange woman who never was able to leave this isolation. In September 1848. She became sick with consumption and refused medical attention in October 1848. Emily sadly died at the age of 30 only a few months later on December 9 (Brownson).

More poems from same author

Last Words Hope Anticipation Holyday Last Lines

Hope

More poems from same author

Subscribe to our newsletter.