Brontë Country III

Another visit to another COVID-quiet Brontë parsonage in Haworth, back in early December.

My first memory of this place has preoccupied me for so long in the shadows of this blog that I can’t help but linger on it every time we’re near it. “Haven’t you taken enough pictures of the parsonage” is my girlfriend’s question every time we pop by. I don’t think I have.

On this occasion, whilst the parsonage itself wasn’t open, the gaudy giftshop was. I picked up a copy of Emily’s complete poems and opened it on the following untitled poem, which is surely about as goth as she gets. What an icon.

May flowers are opening,
⁠And leaves unfolding free;
There are bees in every blossom,
⁠And birds on every tree.

The sun is gladly shining,
⁠The stream sings merrily;
And lonely I am pining,
⁠And all is dark to me.

O cold, cold is my heart!
⁠It will not, cannot rise;
It feels no sympathy
⁠With those refulgent skies.

Dead, dead is my joy,
⁠I long to be at rest;
I wish the damp earth covered
⁠This desolated breast.

If I were quite alone,
⁠It might not be so drear,
When all hope was gone;
⁠At least I could not fear.

But the glad eyes around me
⁠Must weep as mine have done,
And I must see the final gloom
⁠Eclipse their morning sun.

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