('Weep Not Too Much')

Written: July 28th. 1846.  First Published: 1902.

The poem is signed with the Gondal initials of A.E., which could be Albert Exina. Here, he begs his lover, who may be Zerona, not to weep. 'The image of the moon 'deformed' by the prison bars is a striking one'.

It appears that there may have been some slight interference with the text, and which is not by Anne: as in an earlier poem, this may have been by Charlotte, or a later editor.

(See also: Chitham, 'The Poems of Anne Brontë', p.132 & p.191)

Weep not too much, my darling;
            Sigh not too oft for me;
Say not the face of Nature
            Has lost its charm for thee.
I have enough of anguish
            In my own breast alone;
Thou canst not ease the burden, Love,
            By adding still thine own.

I know the faith and fervour
            Of that true heart of thine;
But I would have it hopeful
            As thou wouldst render mine.
At night, when I lie waking,
            More soothing it will be
To say 'She slumbers calmly now,'
            Than say 'She weeps for me.'

When through the prison grating
            The holy moonbeams shine,
And I am wildly longing
            To see the orb divine
Not crossed, deformed, and sullied
            By those relentless bars
That will not show the crescent moon,
            And scarce the twinkling stars,

It is my only comfort
            To think, that unto thee
The sight is not forbidden --
            The face of heaven is free.
If I could think Zerona
            Is gazing upward now --
Is gazing with a tearless eye
            A calm unruffled brow;

That moon upon her spirit
            Sheds sweet, celestial balm, --
The thought, like Angel's whisper,
            My misery would calm.
And when, at early morning,
            A faint flush comes to me,
Reflected from those glowing skies
            I almost weep to see;

Or when I catch the murmur
            Of gently swaying trees,
Or hear the louder swelling
            Of the soul-inspiring breeze,
And pant to feel its freshness
            Upon my burning brow,
Or sigh to see the twinkling leaf,
            And watch the waving bough;

If, from these fruitless yearnings
            Thou wouldst deliver me,
Say that the charms of Nature
            Are lovely still to thee;
While I am thus repining,
            O! let me but believe,
'These pleasures are not lost to her,'
            And I will cease to grieve.

O, scorn not Nature's bounties!
            My soul partakes with thee.
Drink bliss from all her fountains,
            Drink for thyself and me!
Say not, 'My soul is buried
            In dungeon gloom with thine;'
But say, 'His heart is here with me;
            His spirit drinks with mine.'


Copyright © 2000 Michael Armitage

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