An Unsung Poet

I stumbled upon this delicious poem recently and deemed it was necessary to share.  It is written by Charlotte Brontë and can be found in Jane Eyre as a love song sung by Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester.  Brontë is a fabulous novelist but I have newfound appreciation for her poetic face that shone so clearly in this piece.

The truest love that ever heart

Felt at its kindled core,

Did through each vein, in quickened start,

The tide of being pour.

Her coming was my hope each day,

Her parting was my pain;

The chance that did her steps delay

Was ice in every vein.

I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,

As I loved, loved to be;

And to this object did I press

As blind as eagerly.

But wide as pathless was the space

That lay our lives between,

And dangerous as the foamy race

Of ocean-surges green.

And haunted as a robber-path

Through wilderness or woods;

For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,

Between our spirits stood.

I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;

I omens did defy:

Whatever menace, harassed, warned,

I passed impetuous by.

On sped my rainbow, fast as light;

I flew as in a dream;

For glorious rose upon my sight

That child of Shower and Gleam.

Still bright on clouds of sufferings dim

Shines that soft, solemn joy;

Nor care I now, how dense and grim

Disasters gather nigh.

I care not in this moment sweet,

Though all I have rushed o'er

Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,

Proclaiming vengeance sore:

Though haughty Hate should strike me down,

Right, bar approach to me,

And grinding Might, with furious frown,

Swear endless enmity.

My love has placed her little hand

With noble faith in mine,

And vowed that wedlock's sacred band

Our nature shall entwine.

My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,

With me to live -- to die;

I have at last my nameless bliss:

As I love -- loved am I!