'Frances' by Charlotte Brontë

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She will not sleep, for fear of dreams,
But, rising, quits her restless bed,
And walks where some beclouded beams
Of moonlight through the hall are shed.

Obedient to the goad of grief,
Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow,
In varying motion seek relief
From the Eumenides of woe.

Wringing her hands, at intervals­
But long as mute as phantom dim­
She glides along the dusky walls,
Under the black oak rafters, grim.

The close air of the grated tower
Stifles a heart that scarce can beat,
And, though so late and lone the hour,
Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet;

And on the pavement, spread before
The long front of the mansion grey,
Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar,
Which pale on grass and granite lay.

Not long she stayed where misty moon
And shimmering stars could on her look,
But through the garden arch-way, soon
Her strange and gloomy path she took.

Some firs, coeval with the tower,
Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head,
Unseen, beneath this sable bower,
Rustled her dress and rapid tread.

There was an alcove in that shade,
Screening a rustic-seat and stand;
Weary she sat her down and laid
Her hot brow on her burning hand.

To solitude and to the night,
Some words she now, in murmurs, said;
And, trickling through her fingers white,
Some tears of misery she shed.

" God help me, in my grievous need,
God help me, in my inward pain;
Which cannot ask for pity's meed,
Which has no license to complain;

Which must be borne, yet who can bear,
Hours long, days long, a constant weight­
The yoke of absolute despair,
A suffering wholly desolate ?

Who can for ever crush the heart,
Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ?
Dissemble truth with ceaseless art,
With outward calm, mask inward strife ?"

She waited­as for some reply;
The still and cloudy night gave none;
Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh,
Her heavy plaint again begun.

" Unloved­I love; unwept­I weep;
Grief I restrain­hope I repress:
Vain is this anguish­fixed and deep;
Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.

My love awakes no love again,
My tears collect, and fall unfelt;
My sorrow touches none with pain,
My humble hopes to nothing melt.

For me the universe is dumb,
Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind;
Life I must bound, existence sum
In the strait limits of one mind;

That mind my own. Oh ! narrow cell;
Dark­imageless­a living tomb !
There must I sleep, there wake and dwell
Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom."

Again she paused; a moan of pain,
A stifled sob, alone was heard;
Long silence followed­then again,
Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.

" Must it be so ? Is this my fate ?
Can I nor struggle, nor contend ?
And am I doomed for years to wait,
Watching death's lingering axe descend ?

And when it falls, and when I die,
What follows ? Vacant nothingness ?
The blank of lost identity ?
Erasure both of pain and bliss ?

I've heard of heaven­I would believe;
For if this earth indeed be all,
Who longest lives may deepest grieve,
Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call.

Oh ! leaving disappointment here,
Will man find hope on yonder coast ?
Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear,
And oft in clouds is wholly lost.

Will he hope's source of light behold,
Fruition's spring, where doubts expire,
And drink, in waves of living gold,
Contentment, full, for long desire ?

Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ?
Rest, which was weariness on earth ?
Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed,
Served but to prove it void of worth ?

Will he find love without lust's leaven,
Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure,
To all with equal bounty given,
In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ?

Will he, from penal sufferings free,
Released from shroud and wormy clod,
All calm and glorious, rise and see
Creation's Sire­Existence' God ?

Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes,
Will he behold them, fading, fly;
Swept from Eternity's repose,
Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ?

If so­endure, my weary frame;
And when thy anguish strikes too deep,
And when all troubled burns life's flame,
Think of the quiet, final sleep;

Think of the glorious waking-hour,
Which will not dawn on grief and tears,
But on a ransomed spirit's power,
Certain, and free from mortal fears.

Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn,
Then from thy chamber, calm, descend,
With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn,
But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end.

And when thy opening eyes shall see
Mementos, on the chamber wall,
Of one who has forgotten thee,
Shed not the tear of acrid gall.

The tear which, welling from the heart,
Burns where its drop corrosive falls,
And makes each nerve, in torture, start,
At feelings it too well recalls:

When the sweet hope of being loved,
Threw Eden sunshine on life's way;
When every sense and feeling proved
Expectancy of brightest day.

When the hand trembled to receive
A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near,
And the heart ventured to believe,
Another heart esteemed it dear.

When words, half love, all tenderness,
Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken,
When the long, sunny days of bliss,
Only by moonlight nights were broken.

Till drop by drop, the cup of joy
Filled full, with purple light, was glowing,
And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high,
Still never dreamt the overflowing.

It fell not with a sudden crashing,
It poured not out like open sluice;
No, sparkling still, and redly flashing,
Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice.

I saw it sink, and strove to taste it,
My eager lips approached the brim;
The movement only seemed to waste it,
It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim.

These I have drank, and they for ever
Have poisoned life and love for me;
A draught from Sodom's lake could never
More fiery, salt, and bitter, be.

Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion;
Joy, but the desert's flying stream;
And, glancing back on long delusion,
My memory grasps a hollow dream.

Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling,
I never knew, and cannot learn,
Nor why my lover's eye, congealing,
Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern.

Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting,
He careless left, and cool withdrew;
Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting,
Nor even one glance of comfort threw.

And neither word nor token sending,
Of kindness, since the parting day,
His course, for distant regions bending,
Went, self-contained and calm, away.

Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation,
Which will not weaken, cannot die,
Hasten thy work of desolation,
And let my tortured spirit fly !

Vain as the passing gale, my crying;
Though lightning-struck, I must live on;
I know, at heart, there is no dying
Of love, and ruined hope, alone.

Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour,
Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow,
And many a storm of wildest rigour
Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough.

Rebellious now to blank inertion,
My unused strength demands a task;
Travel, and toil, and full exertion,
Are the last, only boon I ask.

Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming
Of death, and dubious life to come ?
I see a nearer beacon gleaming
Over dejection's sea of gloom.

The very wildness of my sorrow
Tells me I yet have innate force;
My track of life has been too narrow,
Effort shall trace a broader course.

The world is not in yonder tower,
Earth is not prisoned in that room,
'Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour,
I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom.

One feeling­turned to utter anguish,
Is not my being's only aim;
When, lorn and loveless, life will languish,
But courage can revive the flame.

He, when he left me, went a roving
To sunny climes, beyond the sea;
And I, the weight of woe removing,
Am free and fetterless as he.

New scenes, new language, skies less clouded,
May once more wake the wish to live;
Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded,
New pictures to the mind may give.

New forms and faces, passing ever,
May hide the one I still retain,
Defined, and fixed, and fading never,
Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain.

And we might meet­time may have changed him;
Chance may reveal the mystery,
The secret influence which estranged him;
Love may restore him yet to me.

False thought­false hope­in scorn be banished !
I am not loved­nor loved have been;
Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished,
Traitors ! mislead me not again !

To words like yours I bid defiance,
'Tis such my mental wreck have made;
Of God alone, and self-reliance,
I ask for solace­hope for aid.

Morn comes­and ere meridian glory
O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile,
Both lonely wood and mansion hoary
I'll leave behind, full many a mile.

Editor 1 Interpretation

Frances by Charlotte Brontë: A Critical Analysis

Frances is a poem written by Charlotte Brontë, the famous author of Jane Eyre. This poem was written in 1846 and was published in the same year in the book, Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, which was a joint publication by Charlotte and her sisters Emily and Anne Brontë. The poem Frances is a beautiful and poignant reflection on love, loss, and the transience of human life. In this literary criticism and interpretation, we will explore the various themes and motifs that are present in the poem and try to understand the significance of the poem in the context of Charlotte Brontë's life and literary career.

Background and Context

To understand the poem Frances, it is important to understand the context in which it was written. Charlotte Brontë was born in 1816 in Yorkshire, England. She was the third of six children born to Patrick Brontë, an Irish Anglican priest, and his wife Maria Branwell. Charlotte and her sisters Emily and Anne were all famous novelists and poets, and their works are considered to be some of the greatest examples of Victorian literature.

Charlotte Brontë's life was marred by tragedy and loss. She lost her mother at the age of five and two of her sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, at a young age. She also suffered from poor health throughout her life, and her father and brother both died while she was still relatively young. The themes of loss and mortality are therefore prominent in many of Charlotte Brontë's works, including Frances.

Themes and Motifs

The poem Frances is a beautiful and melancholic reflection on love and loss. The poem is dedicated to Frances, who is presumably a beloved friend or family member who has passed away. The poem begins with a description of the beauty of the natural world, which is contrasted with the transience of human life. The first stanza reads:

The sun has set, and the long grass now
Waves dreamily in the evening wind;
And the wild bird has flown from that old gray stone
In some warm nook a couch to find.

In these lines, we see a vivid description of the natural world, with the long grass waving dreamily in the evening wind, and a wild bird flying to find a warm nook to rest in. The imagery is peaceful and serene, but it is also tinged with a sense of transience and impermanence, as the sun has set and the bird has flown away.

The next stanza introduces the theme of love and loss:

In all the lonely landscape round
I see no light and hear no sound,
Except the wind that far away
Come sighing o'er the healthy sea.

Here, the speaker describes the loneliness and emptiness of the landscape, and the absence of any signs of life or hope. The wind is the only sound that is heard, and it is described as sighing over the healthy sea. This line is particularly poignant, as it suggests that even the sea, which is usually associated with vitality and life, is affected by the sense of loss and sadness that permeates the poem.

Throughout the poem, the speaker reflects on the transience of human life and the inevitability of death. In the third stanza, the speaker describes the passing of time:

I knew the stars, the flowers, the birds,
The gray and solemn forest depths,
The lovely rivers, the sun's bright rays,
The lilies and the wild bee's breath.

Here, the speaker lists the various aspects of nature that she has experienced and enjoyed, suggesting that she has lived a full and rich life. However, she also acknowledges that all of these things are fleeting and temporary, and that they will eventually pass away. This is reinforced in the next stanza, where the speaker reflects on the idea of death:

And in the same bright eyes confest
The whiteness of the marble breast;
And in that smile, and in that kiss,
I felt, while prostrate o'er her tomb,
My heart as cold and silent grow
As that beneath the altar-stone.

Here, the speaker describes the death of Frances, and the profound sense of loss and grief that she feels. The imagery is powerful and evocative, as the white marble breast and the altar-stone suggest the cold and finality of death. The speaker's heart is also described as growing cold and silent, suggesting that death has left her feeling numb and empty.

The theme of love and loss is also present in the final stanza, where the speaker reflects on the memory of Frances:

And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, Heaven's decree,
I joyed that I had spared the flower
Still blooming by the lonely sea.

Here, the speaker suggests that Frances was like a flower that bloomed briefly but brightly, before passing away. The memory of Frances brings joy to the speaker, but it is also a painful reminder of the transience of human life and the inevitability of death.

Interpretation and Significance

Frances is a powerful and poignant reflection on love, loss, and the transience of human life. Charlotte Brontë's use of vivid imagery and evocative language creates a sense of melancholy and sadness that is both haunting and beautiful. The poem is a testament to Brontë's ability to explore complex themes and emotions through her writing, and it is a powerful reminder of the fragility of life and the importance of cherishing the moments that we have.

In many ways, Frances can be seen as a reflection of Charlotte Brontë's own experiences of loss and grief. Like the speaker in the poem, Brontë suffered from the loss of numerous family members and friends throughout her life, and she also struggled with poor health and the sense of mortality that comes with it. The poem can therefore be seen as a personal reflection on Brontë's own experiences and emotions, as well as a powerful work of literature in its own right.

In conclusion, Frances is a beautiful and moving poem that explores complex themes of love, loss, and the transience of human life. Charlotte Brontë's use of vivid imagery and evocative language creates a sense of melancholy and sadness that is both haunting and beautiful, and the poem is a testament to Brontë's ability to explore complex themes and emotions through her writing. As a work of literature, Frances is a powerful reminder of the fragility of life and the importance of cherishing the moments that we have, and it is a testament to Brontë's enduring legacy as one of the greatest writers of the Victorian era.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

Frances, a classic poem written by Charlotte Brontë, is a beautiful and powerful piece of literature that has stood the test of time. This poem is a reflection of the author's own experiences and emotions, and it speaks to the universal themes of love, loss, and the search for meaning in life.

The poem begins with the speaker, Frances, describing her feelings of loneliness and isolation. She is alone in the world, with no one to turn to for comfort or companionship. She longs for someone to share her life with, someone who will understand her and love her for who she is.

As the poem progresses, Frances begins to reflect on her past and the people she has loved and lost. She remembers the joy and happiness she felt when she was with them, and the pain and sorrow she experienced when they were gone. She realizes that love is both a blessing and a curse, and that it can bring both joy and pain.

Despite her past experiences, Frances remains hopeful and optimistic. She believes that there is still someone out there for her, someone who will love her and accept her for who she is. She is determined to keep searching for that person, no matter how long it takes.

The language and imagery used in the poem are both beautiful and powerful. Brontë's use of metaphor and symbolism adds depth and meaning to the poem, and helps to convey the complex emotions and themes that it explores.

For example, in the first stanza of the poem, Frances describes herself as a "wandering bird". This metaphor suggests that she is lost and alone, searching for a place to call home. The image of a bird also suggests freedom and flight, which may represent Frances' desire to break free from her loneliness and find love and companionship.

In the second stanza, Frances reflects on her past loves and describes them as "flowers". This metaphor suggests that her past loves were beautiful and precious, but also fragile and fleeting. The image of a flower also suggests growth and renewal, which may represent Frances' hope for a new love in the future.

Throughout the poem, Brontë uses vivid imagery to create a sense of atmosphere and emotion. For example, in the third stanza, she describes the "dusky hills" and the "purple moors". These images create a sense of mystery and beauty, and suggest that Frances is searching for love in a wild and untamed landscape.

Overall, Frances is a powerful and moving poem that explores the universal themes of love, loss, and the search for meaning in life. Brontë's use of metaphor and imagery adds depth and meaning to the poem, and helps to convey the complex emotions and themes that it explores. This poem is a testament to the enduring power of literature, and a reminder of the beauty and complexity of the human experience.

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