Author: Emily Bronte
"The winter wind is loud and wild, Come close to me, my darling child; Forsake thy books, and mateless play; And, while the night is gathering gray, We'll talk its pensive hours away; "Ierne, round our sheltered hall November's gusts unheeded call; Not one faint breath can enter here Enough to wave my daughter's hair, And I am glad to watch the blaze Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays; To feel her cheek, so softly pressed, In happy quiet on my breast, "But, yet, even this tranquillity Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me; And, in the red fire's cheerful glow, I think of deep glens, blocked with snow; I dream of moor, and misty hill, Where evening closes dark and chill; For, lone, among the mountains cold, Lie those that I have loved of old. And my heart aches, in hopeless pain, Exhausted with repinings vain, That I shall greet them ne'er again!" "Father, in early infancy, When you were far beyond the sea, Such thoughts were tyrants over me! I often sat, for hours together, Through the long nights of angry weather, Raised on my pillow, to descry The dim moon struggling in the sky; Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock, Of rock with wave, and wave with rock; So would I fearful vigil keep, And, all for listening, never sleep. But this world's life has much to dread, Not so, my Father, with the dead. "Oh! not for them, should we despair, The grave is drear, but they are not there; Their dust is mingled with the sod, Their happy souls are gone to God! You told me this, and yet you sigh, And murmur that your friends must die. Ah! my dear father, tell me why? For, if your former words were true, How useless would such sorrow be; As wise, to mourn the seed which grew Unnoticed on its parent tree, Because it fell in fertile earth, And sprang up to a glorious birth, Struck deep its root, and lifted high Its green boughs in the breezy sky. "But, I'll not fear, I will not weep For those whose bodies rest in sleep, I know there is a blessed shore, Opening its ports for me and mine; And, gazing Time's wide waters o'er, I weary for that land divine, Where we were born, where you and I Shall meet our dearest, when we die; From suffering and corruption free, Restored into the Deity." "Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child! And wiser than thy sire; And worldly tempests, raging wild, Shall strengthen thy desire, Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam, Through wind and ocean's roar, To reach, at last, the eternal home, The steadfast, changeless shore!"
Type of Poem: Narrative Poem
Date Written:
Date Published:
Language: English
Keywords: Public Domain
Source: Public Domain Collection
Publisher:
Rights/Permissions: Public Domain
Comments/Notes: This poem presents a poignant exploration of the themes of loss, grief, faith, and the contrast between the transient nature of life and the eternal realm of the afterlife. The structure of the poem, a dialogue between a father and his child, underscores the generational perspectives on mortality. The father's melancholy tone reflects his struggle with the inevitability of death and the painful memories of lost loved ones, while the child's voice carries a note of innocent wisdom and unwavering faith.
The poem uses vivid imagery and metaphors to convey the themes. The winter wind and the "deep glens, blocked with snow" symbolize isolation, despair, and the cold reality of death. In contrast, the red fire's glow and the child's warm presence serve as beacons of comfort and hope amidst the gloom. The poem's tone shifts from melancholy to hopeful as it progresses, mirroring the child's optimistic view of death as a transition to a "blessed shore" rather than an end. The recurrent metaphor of the sea journey, culminating in the "eternal home," further emphasizes this perspective.
The poem's strength lies in its balance between the raw, emotional exposition of grief and the comforting, divine assurance of reunion in death. It subtly challenges the reader to reflect on their own perceptions of mortality, offering a tender, yet profound perspective on the cycle of life and death.
Narrative poetry is a form of poetry that tells a story, often making use of the voices of a narrator and characters as well. Unlike lyric poetry, which focuses on emotions and thoughts, narrative poetry is dedicated to storytelling, weaving tales that captivate readers through plot and character development.
Narrative poems are unique in their ability to combine the depth of storytelling with the expressive qualities of poetry. Here are some defining characteristics:
From ancient epics like "The Iliad" and "The Odyssey" to more modern narrative poems, this form continues to engage readers by blending the art of storytelling with the beauty and rhythm of poetry.