Thursday, December 19, 2019

Thursday, December 19, 2019 12:30 am by M. in , , ,    No comments
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Those lines from Emily Brontë's heart-wrenching poem Remembrance have always seemed to us strangely fitting for her own death anniversary. Today, December 19th, marks the 171st anniversary of her death. She who, up until the last moments, insisted on carrying on as usual with her daily chores. She who, according to Charlotte, turned 'her dying eyes reluctantly from the pleasant sun'. Charlotte, the elder sister who roamed the moors searching 'for a lingering spray of heather—just one spray, however withered—to take in to Emily' only to see 'that the flower was not recognised by the dim and indifferent eyes' as reported by Elizabeth Gaskell, also wrote a poem in tribute to her 'bonnie love'.

On the Death of Emily Jane Brontë

My darling thou wilt never know
The grinding agony of woe
That we have bourne for thee,
Thus may we consolation tear
E'en from the depth of our despair
And wasting misery.

The nightly anguish thou art spared
When all the crushing truth is bared
To the awakening mind,
When the galled heart is pierced with grief,
Till wildly it implores relief,
But small relief can find.

Nor know'st thou what it is to lie
Looking forth with streaming eye
On life's lone wilderness.
"Weary, weary, dark and drear,
How shall I the journey bear,
The burden and distress?"

Then since thou art spared such pain
We will not wish thee here again;
He that lives must mourn.
God help us through our misery
And give us rest and joy with thee
When we reach our bourne!

EDIT: The Daily Star (Bangladesh) makes a beautiful tribute to Emily Brontë:
Gondal: The Fanciful World of Emily Brontë
I was a student of ninth grade when I first discovered Emily Brontë. The final exams were over and I was slouching around the house when I found this volume in our old bookshelf-- the cover being half torn with the silhouette of a man and woman standing under the tree on a hill-top. Grabbing the book I went to sit at my favorite spot in the veranda with the winter sunlight warming my toes. I expected the book to be a romance and yes, romance it was indeed; even after completing an entire dissertation on Emily Brontë, I am still romancing her novel Wuthering Heights. (Read more) (Sohana Manzoor)

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