A few days ago, reading Oxford World Classics newly published Tales of Glass Town, Angria and Gondal (Edited by Christine Alexander) (review to come soon), we came across the fragment we used as weekly quote:
Though written 12 years before his own death and in a fictional context, it seemed to fit Branwell's last years perfectly.It said--Oh all is lost for ever!
All he loves to him is dead
All his hopes of glory fled
All the past is vanished
Save what nought can sever
Ever living memories
That shall haunt him till he dies
With what he can realise
Never Never Never!
And yet - thanks to his sisters - here is his name today, in print and on the internet. He's not forgotten.
EDIT: As Les Brontë à Paris certify.
Categories: Branwell Brontë, Juvenilia, Poetry, Reminder
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