Enchanting Verses

by Emily Bronte  (1818—1848)

It is too late to call thee now—
I will not nurse that dream again
For every joy that lit my brow Would bring its after-storm of pain—

Besides the mist is half withdrawn,
The barren mountain-side lies bare
And sunshine and awaking morn
Paint no more golden visions there—

Yet ever in my grateful breast
Thy darling shade shall cherished be
For God alone doth know how blessed
My early years have been in thee!

by Emily Bronte  (1818—1848)

’Tis moonlight summer moonlight
All soft and still and fair
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high
Or stooping low and lending A shelter from the sky

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid
Green grass and dew steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head

by Emily Bronte  (1818—1848)

If grief for grief can touch thee,
If answering woe for woe,
If any ruth can melt thee
Come to me now!

I cannot by more lonely,
More drear I cannot be!
My worn heart throbs so wildly
’Twill break for thee—

And when the world despises—
When heaven repels my prayer—
Will not my angel comfort?
Mine idol hear?

Yes by the tears I’ve poured,
By all by hours of pain
O I shall surely win thee
Beloved, again!

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take
the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d;
I strove against the stream and all in vain;
Let the great river take me to the main.
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.

by Christina Rossetti (1830–1894)

Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come to me in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bittersweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago.

by Christina Rossetti (1830–1894)

Somewhere or other there must surely be
The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet — never yet — ah me!
Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
That tracks her by night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
With just a wall, a hedge, between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
Fallen on a turf grown green.