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