Charlotte Brontë

By Charlotte Becker

(Died March 31, 1855)

NOT any of earth’s happiness she knew,

But only dull, gray days of sordid care,

And yet there grew within her, strong and fair,

The flower and fruit of comprehension, true

And vital as the northern wind that blew

Across her native moorlands; grief swept bare

The beauty of the joys she might not share,

And gave her power to tell life’s wonders through.

Repressed and patient, each slow year more sad

With dreary servitude to other’s pain—

Her genius, like a budding rose, had lain

Too close her heart to wither—all the glad,

Warm strength of living, as each leaf unfurled,

Denied to her, was blossomed for the world!