Many victorian women felt trapped by the role society gave them. So did Anne Bronte. This is a poem about lonleyness, and about feeling caged. A poem which would bring tears to your eyes.
First Page:An Anonymous Volunteer
by Currer, Ellis, And Acton Bell
(Charlotte, Emily and Anne Bronte)
POEMS BY CURRER BELL
PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM.
I've quench'd my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall; Over against my bed, there shone a gleam Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream.
It sank, and I am wrapt in utter gloom; How far is night advanced, and when will day Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom, And fill this void with warm, creative ray? Would I could sleep again till, clear and red, Morning shall on the mountain tops be spread!
I'd call my women, but to break their sleep, Because my own is broken, were unjust; They've wrought all day, and well earn'd slumbers steep Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust; Let me my feverish watch with patience bear, Thankful that none with me its sufferings share.
Yet, oh, for light! one ray would tranquillize My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can; I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies: These trembling stars at dead of night look wan, Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear... Continue reading book >>
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