By Anne Bronte
Anne Bronte wrote this poem a few weeks after Emily died.
Emily had died of tuberculosis, and at this time, Anne had it also.
She knew death was "standing at the gate".
hoped, that with the brave and strong,
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high.
But God has fixed another part,
And He has fixed it well;
I said so with my bleeding heart,
When first the anguish fell.
A dreadful darkness closes in
On my bewildered mind;
Oh, let me suffer and not sin,
Be tortured, yet resigned.
Shall I with joy thy blessings share
And not endure their loss?
Or hope the martyr's crown to wear
And cast away the cross?
Thou, God, hast taken our delight,
Our treasured hope away;
Thou bidst us now weep through the night
And sorrow through the day.
These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of misery,
These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,
Can I but turn to Thee.
Weak and weary though I lie,
Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,
I may lift to Heaven mine eye,
And strive to labour not in vain;
That inward strife against the sins
That ever wait on suffering
To strike whatever first begins-
Each ill that would corruption bring;
That secret labour to sustain
With humble patience every blow;
To gather fortitude from pain,
And hope and holiness from woe.
Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
Whate'er may be my written fate:
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.
If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,
More humbled I should be;
More wise, more strengthened for the strife,
More apt to lean on Thee.
Should death be standing at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow;
But, Lord! whatever be my fate,
Oh, let me serve Thee now!
"Precious in the sight of the LORD is
the death of His saints."
~ Psalm 116:15 ~
Note by Charlotte Bronte: "These lines written, the desk was closed, the
pen laid aside - for ever."