The Letter
Charlotte Brontë
1816 to 1855
Track 1
Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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In vain for her light footsteps wait,
The golden sun of June declines,
Descends a marble stair.
There is an open door of glass
Of evening's rosy hours?
It has not caught her eye.
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate,
A moment more, her task is done,
'Tis sent from England's shore.
Her soul is in th'absorbing task;
Close by that lady's chair,
O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase,
Her eye a moment met
And mark in heaven the radiant dance
Distinct, what form defines
And now, towards the setting sun
Between the clustering flowers,
'Tis there she turns; you may not see
Falls glittering at her feet;
Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek
Their leaves and blossoms shade the room
Where do they turn, as now her pen
Her husband, loved though stern;
Th'impending picture, then it fell
How eagerly her youthful brow
You scarce may aught discern.
Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom
When from that sky you turn,
Unsmiling, earnest, still,
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,
Sloped, as if leaning on the air,
Your eyes now faintly trace
How fast her fingers move!
Did in their dark spheres shine?
Ere read by him to whose loved hand
She turns her tearful eyes.
Weeps for his wished return.
Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain rare,
And from th'expanse of that green park,
The summer-parlour looks so dark,
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then
The clouded mass of mystery
Pursues her labour sweet.
And fast her pen and fingers fly,
Unmarked it falls, for she no less
Hangs o'er th'unfinished line?
But look again; inured to shade
Urged by her eager will.
Is bent in thought above!
What is she writing? Watch her now,
A firm, determined face.
She, 'mid that smiling English scene,
From thence, to slopes of messy grass,
The very loveliest hour that shines,
The white road, far away,
Nor knows that band of crystals bright,
Why does she not a moment glance
Yon broad gold frame confines.
From that sun's deepening glow.
Nay, watch her still more closely, ask
To whom, then, doth she write?
She puts them quick aside,
And sealed the letter lies;
Darkened and dimmed and wet.
A brow high, broad, and white,
It slips down her silken dress,
One picture meets the gaze.
Of mind and moral might.
Is in that deep blue sky;
Where every furrow seems to speak
In what a strange and distant spot
Around the threshold grow;
O look again! Still fixed her eye,
A stalwart form, a massive head,
She comes not forth to-day.
Her heart of hearts must be!
Her hasty touch untied.
For by the inscription see
That letter must pass o'er,
Those tears flow over, wonder not,
Her own eyes' serious light;
Remote colonial wilds detain
Is that her god? I cannot tell;
Three seas and many a league of land