BW3: B is for Bronte

Anne Bronte

January 17, 1820 to May 28, 1849

Anne Bronte, the youngest sister of the Bronte sisters Emily and Charlotte.  She was also the youngest of 6 children born to Maria Branwell and Reverend Patrick Bronte.  After her mother's death, her aunt Elizabeth moved in to help Patrick raise her and her siblings:  Maria (1814-1825), Elizabeth (1815-1825), Charlotte (1816-1855), Patrick Branwell “Branwell” (1817-1848), and Emily (1818-1849). 

She wrote numerous poems and contributed to a book of poetry which was published in 1846 called "Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell.  The sisters used aliases to hide the fact the authors were female.  In 1847, Anne's first novel "Agnes Grey" was published under the alias Acton Bell.   In 1848, her 2nd novel "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" was introduced.   Unfortunately it was overshadowed by the the deaths of her brother Bramwell and sister Emily within two months of each other.     She died in 1849 at the age of 28 from tuberculosis. 

Memory

Brightly the sun of summer shone
Green fields and waving woods upon,
And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
Allured the gazer's eye.

But what were all these charms to me,
When one sweet breath of memory
Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;

That I might simply fancy there
One little flower--a primrose fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
A source of strange delight.

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee;
Oh, still thy tribute bring
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
The glory of the spring.

Still in the wallflower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight bluebell,
My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
With all thy former power.

For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
Or rippling waters play.

Is childhood, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
That haloes thus the past?
Not ALL divine; its pangs of grief
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief)
Are bitter while they last.

Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
Though long ago they passed.

In honor of Anne Bronte's birthday, my challenge to you this week is to read either one of her stories and/or her poetry which can be found online and let me know what you think of them. 

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