Emily Bronte is, undoubtedly best remembered for her novel Wuthering Heights. It is a great book full of atmosphere with it’s portrayal of the firey Cathy and the brooding dark Heathcliffe set against the backdrop of the Yorkshire mors which the author knew so well. Emily Jane Bronte is less well known for her poetry (in my humble opinion rightly so), however I frequently return to her poem, Spellbound which can be found in a number of anthologies including the New Oxford Book of English Verse, edited by Helen Gardner. I love the rhythm of the poem and the way in which Bronte paints a vivid picture, of a stormy night. One can almost see the trees bending and hear the wind blowing:
“The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go”.