The Song, by Anne Bronte:

We know where deepest lies the snow,

And where the frost-winds keenest blow,

O`er every mountain`s brow,

We long have known and learnt to bear

The wandering outlaw`s toil and care,

But where we late were hunted, there

Our foes are hunted now.

We have their princely homes, and they

To our wild haunts are chased away,

Dark woods, and desert caves.

And we can range from hill to hill, 

And chase our vanquished victors still;

Small respite will they find until

They slumber in their graves.

But would rather be the hare,

That crouching in it`s sheltered lair

Must start at every sound;

That forced from cornfields waving wide

Is driven to seek the bare hillside,

Or in the tangled copse to hide,

Than be the hunter`s hound.


Anne Bronte was a British novelist and poet, and youngest of the famous Bronte sisters. She wrote a volume of poems, and in quick succession, two novels,  Agnes Grey and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. She has been unfairly over shadowed by Charlotte and Emily, and deserves more attention than she currently receives. Though rarely attaining complete perfection, her poetry does have it`s moments, which is more than most of us mere mortals can claim. Such is the burdensome cross of being a Bronte, even being a great writer, her reputation as a poet still falls slightly short of Charlotte, and the even more formidable and sublime Emily. In any other company, her name would have screamed across the sky like a fiery comet, rather than being just one of the best novelists who has ever lived. Such is the price of the Bronte name. Please go out and read her, she is a wonderful, and thought provoking novelist. 




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