Often rebuked, yet always back returning
Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be:
To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.
I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.
I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side
What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.
Harold Bloom calls this Emily Brontë's finest poem; however, C.W. Hatfield, who edited her poems, speculates that Charlotte wrote or revised this poem. It first appeared in the 1850 edition of Emily's novel and poems; no manuscript version of this poem is known.
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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Related quotes
Stanzas
Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be:
To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.
I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.
I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.
What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.
poem by Emily Brontë from Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë (1850)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I'll walk where my own nature would be leading: It vexes me to choose another guide.
quote by Emily Bronte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Was A Poem Long Ago
THERE WAS A POEM LONG AGO
There was a poem long ago
A poem of youth and hope
Now there are other poems
Poems of age and sorrow.
There was a poem once
Of love – and happiness in love
Now there is a poem of lovelessness
And sadness.
There was a poem once
Of the long and distant open road
Now there is a poem of the dead end.
There was a poem once
That believed in Poetry
Now there is a poem that knows
Even the most beautiful worlds of words
End in dust
There was a poem once – long ago.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If Grief for Grief Can Touch Thee
If grief for grief can touch thee,
If answering woe for woe,
If any truth can melt thee
Come to me now!
I cannot be more lonely,
More drear I cannot be!
My worn heart beats so wildly
'Twill break for thee.
And when the world despises,
When Heaven repels my prayer,
Will not mine angel comfort?
Mine idol hear?
Yes, by the tears I'm poured,
By all my hours of pain,
O I shall surely win thee,
Beloved, again.
poem by Emily Brontë from The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë (1908)
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The Poem Of All The Places I Have Never Been
THE POEM OF ALL THE PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN
The poem of all the places I have never been
The poem of all the dreams I have not seen
The poem of others poems written in lines I have never imagined
The poem of the infinite – what-is- not and ‘what- will- never- be
The poem of seas and suns and sounds and Shakespeare’s sonnets,
The poem of words and only words whose sounds do not mean what we feel
The poem of all I would not and cannot write
The poem that is not and never will be in me
The poem I do not write
The poem I am not
The poem lost
The poem which itself is not a poem
The poem of the last contradiction and the first
The poem beyond the poem hidden within the poem
The poem which will never be a poem
The poem which is not
The poem I cannot dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Why Should I Have A Poem?
WHY SHOULD I HAVE A POEM?
Why should I have a poem?
Who am I to have a poem?
Who is anyone to have a poem?
But then again
Aren’t we all poems?
Many poems
And each one of us many voices
And who knows how deep feelings
We ourselves cannot understand
And lingerings of beauty
We can ourselves barely decipher?
Who knows what a poem is
And what life means
And why we write and read
And what words move us
In the middle of the night
Or at the end of the day
When even our dreams are asleep?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poem Is Not The Answer To Everything
A POEM IS NOT THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING
A poem is not the answer to everything-
Perhaps it is not the answer to anything
Though I wouldn't take it that far-
There have been times
When a poem was the answer-
Many times
A poem written by someone else
A poem I tried to write by myself-
Poems can be an answer
Perhaps not for most things
Perhaps not for all the major things
But for moods and pains and feeling
And desire for Beauty
Poems can be answers at time-
A poem is not really the answer to my problem of the moment now
But it is an answer of a kind anyway
Thank God for poems and for this poem also.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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An Evening Poem
AN EVENING POEM
An evening poem
Waits for deeper darkness
A night poem knows blackness
As home.
A morning poem is light
An afternoon poem is thick with heat.
All times have a poem
And all seasons poems also
All lives are poems
And all stories also.
We all are and all know poems
Poems pervade us
And the universe.
It is night now
But when the morning comes
Its poem will overshadow now.
What a brave new world it is
With so many poems in it
And what a life-
With such deep sadness
Waiting forever to be unexpressed.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Come, Walk With Me
Come, walk with me,
There's only thee
To bless my spirit now -
We used to love on winter nights
To wander through the snow;
Can we not woo back old delights?
The clouds rush dark and wild
They fleck with shade our mountain heights
The same as long ago
And on the horizon rest at last
In looming masses piled;
While moonbeams flash and fly so fast
We scarce can say they smiled -
Come walk with me, come walk with me;
We were not once so few
But Death has stolen our company
As sunshine steals the dew -
He took them one by one and we
Are left the only two;
So closer would my feelings twine
Because they have no stay but thine -
'Nay call me not - it may not be
Is human love so true?
Can Friendship's flower droop on for years
And then revive anew?
No, though the soil be wet with tears,
How fair soe'er it grew
The vital sap once perished
Will never flow again
And surer than that dwelling dread,
The narrow dungeon of the dead
Time parts the hearts of men -'
poem by Emily Brontë from The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë (1908)
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What Is A Jewish Poem?
WHAT IS A JEWISH POEM?
What is a Jewish poem?
‘Shema’ is a Jewish poem
Perhaps the Jewish poem-
'Shmoneh Esreh' is comprised of Jewish poems
Nineteen prayers as one-
Our history is filled with Jewish poems-
From the beginning with Abraham and Sarah
Those who have given so much beyond our understanding -
Jewish poems everywhere -
Is each Jewish life a poem and a story also?
Or is it only those who give something to our people and history
Who are worthy of Poetry?
I have known many Jewish poems
People the great world will not know the names of
People who whether they walked humbly or not
Made the lives of others better in some way –
Kindness is perhaps the ultimate Jewish poem
And Justice also-
And Jewish poems are not without their contradictions –
As I write this poem in Jerusalem in the land of Israel
I think of the small Jewish world of Troy New York where I came from so many years ago
And miss so many people no longer of that and this world –
Longing for Israel for two thousand years was the Jewish poem
Living here now is a blessing and a gift
I thank God for.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Is A Poem For Me Somewhere This Morning
THERE IS A POEM FOR ME SOMEWHERE THIS MORNING
There is a poem for me somewhere this morning
I will find it somehow
Perhaps it is in the memory of my father
Whose Yahrtzeit is today
Twenty- two years.
Perhaps it is as it is often
In the morning light
When I first walk outside to Shul
Perhaps it is in the deep need for a poem
For my own justification
Perhaps it is in my daughter’s search
For poems of inspiration
Perhaps it is in many things mixed together
Most of which I have not yet
And may never bring to mind
There is a poem for me somewhere this morning
I am writing it now
It is not beautiful
And not the best
And maybe even not much of a poem
There is a poem for me somewhere this morning
And I am not alone.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wrote A Poem I Loved
I WROTE A POEM I LOVED
I wrote a poem I loved
But I could not rest content with it.
I had to write another poem,
And another poem.
And in the writing of other poems,
Some of which I also loved.
I lost the poem I loved.
Essentially I am a writer of poems
And not their possessor.
I possess many poems of others,
But somehow mine, I cannot.
However I love them
Perhaps I really believe
None of them good enough
To be worthy of such love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Is No Poem For Me Today
THERE IS NO POEM FOR ME TODAY
There is no poem for me today
There is no poem of yesterday
The poems have gone
And far away
There is no poem
For another day.
There never will be another poem
Poems are gone
Poems are stone.
All the words I will ever write
Are not enough
For a Poem of Life.
The Poems are not
They will never be
I am not a Poem
Nor Poetry.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If I were a bard
If I were a young Bard.
I wrote my first poem when I was about 13.I was taking a short cut home
when I saw a woman washing her herself by the fire place, few people in
those days had a bathroom. I was so enthralled by this that I wrote a poem.
My older brother found it, gave my ode to my mother, who said I was a pig.
This shocked me so much that I never wrote another poem before I was fifty
one. But all the poems I didn’t write came tumbling out it was like they had
been filed in my head waiting for me to pick up a pen. This particular well is
empty, the poems I write now are contemporary. I have a collection of
verses, edited by a friend of mine “The Tasmanian Tiger” when settlers came
to Tasmania they eradicated that animal, it will never come back and that
saddens me deeply. In Norway we very nearly killed off the wolf, my inner
ear can hear them, in a snowbound dale them when the moon is full and
I too can howl to a mythical past; a longing for harmony in a cruel world.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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I Lost The Poem I Wrote In My Mind
I LOST THE POEM I WROTE IN MIND
I lost the poem I wrote in my mind
When walking to Shul this morning-
I can only try to recall its thoughts;
‘Walk too fast and the mind cannot hear itself
Walk slowly and listen to the poem inside yourself.
The road ahead the trees the sky
Has a beauty too great for you to write
Thank God for your sight.”
The best lines are forever gone-
A poem to replace a poem
Is not as good as the original-
I wish I had the words for all the beauty God gives me in my life
How wonderful it is to be alive- sometimes
And to be able to write poems – even if somewhat poorly.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Shapeshifter Poems
1
the legend is whispered
in the women's tent
how the moon when she rises
full
follows some men into themselves
and changes them there
the season is short
but dreadful shapeshifters
they wear strange hands
they walk through the houses
at night their daughters
do not know them
2
who is there to protect her
from the hands of the father
not the windows which see and
say nothing not the moon
that awful eye not the woman
she will become with her
scarred tongue who who who the owl
laments into the evening who
will protect her this prettylittlegirl
3
if the little girl lies
still enough
shut enough
hard enough
shapeshifter may not
walk tonight
the full moon may not
find him here
the hair on him
bristling
rising
up
4
the poem at the end of the world
is the poem the little girl breathes
into her pillow the one
she cannot tell the one
there is no one to hear this poem
is a political poem is a war poem is a
universal poem but is not about
these things this poem
is about one human heart this poem
is the poem at the end of the world
poem by Lucille Clifton
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High waving heather'neath stormy blasts bending
High waving heather'neath stormy blasts bending,
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
Each rising to heaven and heaven descending;
Man's spirit away from the drear dungeon sending,
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
All down the mountain-sides wild forests lending
The mighty voice to the life-giving wind;
Rivers their banks in the jubilee bending,
Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,
Wilder and deeper their waters extending,
Leaving a desolate desert behind.
Shining and lowering, and swelling and dying,
Changing for ever from midnight to noon;
Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,
Shadows on shadows advancing and flying;
Lightning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying,
Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.
Woods, you nedd not frown on me;
Spectral trees, that so dolefully
Shake your heads in the dreary sky,
You need not mock so bitterly.
poem by Emily Brontë from The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë (1908)
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I Walk Where The Poem Once Was
I WALK WHERE THE POEM ONCE WAS
I walk where the Poem once was,
The Trees are still green
The woman is dead,
The sky is cold.
I walk where many Poems
Have been written
After the rain
Her flowers still bloom.
The presence of the other person,
Is the Greatest Gift God gives us.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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