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Emily Jane Brontë: The Complete Poems

Edited by Janet Gezari
Brontë, Emily (1818-1848)
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expand sectionI. 
I. Poems Published in 1846
collapse sectionII. 
II. Dated Poems
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23. A. G. A. to A. E.
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27. Lines
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32. To a Wreath of Snow
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33. Song by Julius Angora
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46. Song to A. A.
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48. A. G. A. to A. S.
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49. Gleneden's Dream
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61. Douglas's Ride
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66. Song by Julius Brenzaida
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67. Song by J. Brenzaida to G. S.
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71. F. De Samara to A. G. A.
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82. Song
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84. To the Blue Bell
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87. Lines by Claudia
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89. Written on Returning to the P. of I. on the 10th of January 1827
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92. A Farewell to Alexandria
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112. Written in the Gaaldine Prison Caves to A. G. A.
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118. The Night-Wind
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125. Geraldine
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126. Rosina
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127. A. S. to G. S.
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128. H. A. and A. S.
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129. Written in Aspin Castle
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131. On the Fall of Zalona
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133. To A. S. 1830
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134. E. G. to M. R.
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136. To A. G. A.
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138. A. G. A. to A. S.
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140. Rodric Lesley. 1830
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142. M. G. for the U. S.
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143. At Castle Wood
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147. E. W. to A. G. A.
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148. The Death of A. G. A.
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151. D. G. C. to J. A.
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154. From a Dungeon Wall in the Southern College
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162. A. E. and R. C.
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164. M. A. Written on the Dungeon Wall—N. C.
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165. Julian M. and A. G. Rochelle
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expand sectionIII. 
III. Undated Poems
expand sectionIV. 
IV. Poems of Doubtful Authorship

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164. M. A. Written on the Dungeon Wall—N. C.

I know that tonight, the wind is sighing,
The soft August wind, over forest and moor
While I in a grave-like chill am lying
On the damp black flags of my dungeon-floor—
176

I know that the Harvest Moon is shining;
She neither will wax nor wane for me,
Yet I weary, weary, with vain repining,
One gleam of her heaven-bright face to see!
For this constant darkness is wasting the gladness
Fast wasting the gladness of life away;
It gathers up thoughts akin to madness
That never would cloud the world of day
I chide with my soul—I bid it cherish
The feelings it lived on when I was free,
But, shrinking it murmurs, ‘Let Memory perish
Forget for thy Friends have forgotten thee!’
Alas, I did think that they were weeping
Such tears as I weep—it is not so!
Their careless young eyes are closed in sleeping;
Their brows are unshadowed, undimmed by woe—
Might I go to their beds, I'd rouse that slumber,
My spirit should startle their rest, and tell
How hour after hour, I wakefully number
Deep buried from light in my lonely cell!
Yet let them dream on, though dreary dreaming
Would haunt my pillow if they were here
And I were laid warmly under the gleaming
Of that guardian moon and her comrade star—
Better that I my own fate mourning
Should pine alone in the prison-gloom
Than waken free on the summer morning
And feel they were suffering this awful doom
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