Poetessa, nato venerdì 10 dicembre 1830 a Amherst, Massachusetts (USA - Stati Uniti d'America), morto sabato 15 maggio 1886 a Amherst, Massachusetts (USA - Stati Uniti d'America)
Frequently the woods are pink - Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town. Oft a head is crested I was wont to see - And as oft a cranny Where it used to be - And the Earth - they tell me - On it's axis turned! Wonderful Rotation! By but twelve performed!
On this wondrous sea Sailing silently, Ho! Pilot, ho! Knowest thou the shore Where no breakers roar - Where the storm is o'er? In the peaceful west Many the sails at rest - The anchors fast - Thither I pilot thee - Land Ho! Eternity! Ashore at last
She died - this was the way she died. And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun - Her little figure at the gate The Angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.
She went as quiet as the Dew From an accustomed flower. Not like the Dew, did she return At the accustomed hour! She dropt as softly as a star From out my summer's eve - Less skillful than Le Verriere It's sorer to believe.
All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of "Currer Bell" In quiet "Haworth" laid. This Bird - observing others When frosts too sharp became Retire to other latitudes - Quietly did the same -
But differed in returning - Since Yorkshire hills are green - Yet not in all the nests I meet - Can Nightingale be seen -
Or, Gathered from many wanderings - Gethsemane can tell Thro' what transporting anguish She reached the Asphodel!
Soft fall the sounds of Eden Upon her puzzled ear - Oh what an afternoon for Heaven, When "Bronte" entered there!
Bless God, he went as soldiers, His musket on his breast - Grant God, he charge the bravest Of all the martial blest! Please God, might I behold him In epauletted white - I should not fear the foe then - I should not fear the fight
On such a night, or such a night, Would anybody care If such a little figure Slipped quiet from it's chair, So quiet - Oh how quiet, That nobody might know But that the little figure Rocked softer - to and fro -
On such a dawn, or such a dawn - Would anybody sigh That such a little figure Too sound asleep did lie
For chanticleer to wake it - Or stirring house below - Or giddy bird in orchard - Or early task to do?
There was a little figure plump For every little knoll, Busy needles, and spools of thread - And trudging feet from school -
Playmates, and holidays, and nuts - And visions vast and small - Strange that the feet so precious charged Should reach so small a goal!
This heart that broke so long - These feet that never flagged - This faith that watched for star in vain, Give gently to the dead - Hound cannot overtake the Hare That fluttered panting, here - Nor any schoolboy rob the nest Tenderness builded there.