Charlotte Bronte Quote

The truest love that ever heartFelt at its kindled core,Did through each vein, in quickened start,The tide of being pour.Her coming was my hope each day,Her parting was my pain;The chance that did her steps delayWas ice in every vein.I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,As I loved, loved to be;And to this object did I pressAs blind as eagerly.But wide as pathless was the spaceThat lay our lives between,And dangerous as the foamy raceOf ocean-surges green.And haunted as a robber-pathThrough wilderness or wood;For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,Between our spirits stood.I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;I omens did defy:Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,I passed impetuous by.On sped my rainbow, fast as light;I flew as in a dream;For glorious rose upon my sightThat child of Shower and Gleam.Still bright on clouds of suffering dimShines that soft, solemn joy;Nor care I now, how dense and grimDisasters gather nigh.I care not in this moment sweet,Though all I have rushed o'erShould come on pinion, strong and fleet,Proclaiming vengeance sore:Though haughty Hate should strike me down,Right, bar approach to me,And grinding Might, with furious frown,Swear endless enmity.My love has placed her little handWith noble faith in mine,And vowed that wedlock's sacred bandOur nature shall entwine.My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,With me to live--to die;I have at last my nameless bliss.As I love--loved am I!

Charlotte Bronte

The truest love that ever heartFelt at its kindled core,Did through each vein, in quickened start,The tide of being pour.Her coming was my hope each day,Her parting was my pain;The chance that did her steps delayWas ice in every vein.I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,As I loved, loved to be;And to this object did I pressAs blind as eagerly.But wide as pathless was the spaceThat lay our lives between,And dangerous as the foamy raceOf ocean-surges green.And haunted as a robber-pathThrough wilderness or wood;For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,Between our spirits stood.I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;I omens did defy:Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,I passed impetuous by.On sped my rainbow, fast as light;I flew as in a dream;For glorious rose upon my sightThat child of Shower and Gleam.Still bright on clouds of suffering dimShines that soft, solemn joy;Nor care I now, how dense and grimDisasters gather nigh.I care not in this moment sweet,Though all I have rushed o'erShould come on pinion, strong and fleet,Proclaiming vengeance sore:Though haughty Hate should strike me down,Right, bar approach to me,And grinding Might, with furious frown,Swear endless enmity.My love has placed her little handWith noble faith in mine,And vowed that wedlock's sacred bandOur nature shall entwine.My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,With me to live--to die;I have at last my nameless bliss.As I love--loved am I!

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About Charlotte Bronte

Charlotte Brontë (, commonly ; 21 April 1816 – 31 March 1855) was an English novelist and poet, the eldest of the three Brontë sisters who survived into adulthood and whose novels became classics of English literature. She is best known for her novel Jane Eyre, which she published under the androgynous name Currer Bell. Jane Eyre went on to become a success in publication, and is widely held in high regard in the gothic fiction genre of literature.
Brontë enlisted in school at Roe Head, Mirfield, in January 1831, aged 14 years. She left the year after to teach her sisters, Emily and Anne, at home, returning in 1835 as a governess. In 1839, she undertook the role of governess for the Sidgwick family, but left after a few months to return to Haworth, where the sisters opened a school but failed to attract pupils. Instead, they turned to writing and they each first published in 1846 under the pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. Although her first novel, The Professor, was rejected by publishers, her second novel, Jane Eyre, was published in 1847. The sisters admitted to their Bell pseudonyms in 1848, and by the following year were celebrated in London literary circles.
Brontë was the last to die of all her siblings. She became pregnant shortly after her wedding in June 1854 but died on 31 March 1855, almost certainly from hyperemesis gravidarum, a complication of pregnancy which causes excessive nausea and vomiting.