It’s Monday and it’s cold in Dublin, am so glad I got a new all-weather
but mostly Mountain-climbing Jacket on the Mayo Sojourn (Post-flu
and dental recovery). Since I am unpacked and having done the school
run where the little one was welcomed back with much happiness, I
thought to publish some Bronte (Brunty) poems and whilst adoring
Emily’s amazing poetry , I think Anne mostly neglected. Poethead
is about women writers , the whole idea of the blog was sited in the
Penelopiad , the woman in exile and the community of women who are
sometimes nodded to in serious writer’s chorus’, choruslines or indeed
hymn sheets, though most of the time critique is poetry and
weekend supplements tends to the male voice and academic fields.
I still have not learnt how to do an Umlaut,{ apologies}:
The North Wind
That wind is from the North: I know it well;
No other breeze could have so wild a swell.
Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell,
The faintly dies, and softly sighs,
And moans and murmurs mournfully.
I know it’s language: thus it speaks to me:
‘I have passed over thy own mountains dear,
Thy northern mountains, and they still are free;
still lonely, wild, majestic,bleak and drear,
And stern, and lovely , as they used to be
‘When thou a young enthusiast,
As wild and free as they,
O’er rocks and glens, and snowy heights,
Didst thou love to stray.
‘I’ve blown the pure, untrodden snows
in whirling eddies from their brows;
And I have howled in cavern’s wild,
Where thou, a joyous mountain-child,
didst dearly love to be.
The sweet world is not changed, but thou
art pining in a dungeon now,
Where thou must ever be.
‘No voice but mine can reach thy ear,
And heaven has kindly sent me here
to mourn and sigh with thee,
And tell thee of the cherished land
of thy nativity.’
Blow on wild wind; thy solemn voice,
However sad and drear,
is nothing to the gloomy silence
I have had to bear.
Hot tears are streaming from my eyes,
But these are better far
Than that dull, gnawing , tearless time,
The stupor of despair.
Confined and hopeless as I am,
Oh, speak of liberty!
Oh, tell me of my mountain home,
And I will welcome thee!
The edition the Poem was taken from is an Everyman: Everyman : Selected Poems, The Brontes, Ed, Juliet RV Barker, 1993 .
