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.