Anne Bronte

E suparatoare susceptibilitatea fata de afronturi atunci cand nu sta in intentia nimanui de a le face.

Brightly the sun of summer shone Green fields and waving woods upon, And soft winds wandered by; Above, a sky of purest blue, Around, bright

Methought I saw him but I knew him not; He was so changed from what he used to be, There was no redness on his woe-worn cheek, No sunny smile upon

I love the silent hour of night, For blissful dreams may then arise, Revealing to my charmed sight What may not bless my waking eyes! And then a

In all we do, and hear, and see, Is restless Toil and Vanity; While yet the rolling earth abides, Men come and go like Ocean tides; And ere one

While on my lonely couch I lie, I seldom feel myself alone, For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own. Then I may

O God! if this indeed be all That Life can show to me; If on my aching brow may fall No freshening dew from Thee, -- If with no brighter light

A prisoner in a dungeon deep Sat musing silently; His head was rested on his hand, His elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future

Why should such gloomy silence reign; And why is all the house so drear, When neither danger, sickness, pain, Nor death, nor want have entered

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze; For above and around me the wild wind is roaring, Arousing

Yes, thou art gone! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me; But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee,

Poor restless dove, I pity thee; And when I hear thy plaintive moan, I mourn for thy captivity, And in thy woes forget mine own. To see thee

We know where deepest lies the snow, And where the frost-winds keenest blow, O\'er every mountain\'s brow, We long have known and learnt to

J\'écris pour que le jour où je ne serai plus On sache comme l\'air et le plaisir m\'ont plu, Et que mon livre porte à la foule future Comme

I have slept upon my couch, But my spirit did not rest, For the labours of the day Yet my weary soul opprest; And, before my dreaming

Oh, weep not, love! each tear that springs In those dear eyes of thine, To me a keener suffering brings, Than if they flowed from mine. And do