Emily Brontë - Notebook of Poems

 

I have fallen into the world of amazing manuscripts. These are images of the original manuscript (notebook of poems) of Emily Brontë. The British Library has these kinds of images of priceless manuscripts online, and this was the first one I clicked on to view. These were the first set of random pages I turned to, and as I took a moment to look closely, I felt  like I had just stepped into the reading room at the British Library in London. I am here to do research for the book I am writing, which of course required me to view the original notebook of Emily Brontë's poems. How amazing that more an 180 years later, I can view this handwritten notebook from a secluded poet who lived in Yorkshire England?

The manuscript is in her handwriting of course, and it is a bit difficult to read some words, same with all my notebooks. So I am practicing my transcription skills for my future self to visit The British Library or Bodleian Library, you know, for when I am writing a book and need to do research by viewing several original manuscripts or rare copies of books. Here is a little bit of one of the poems above, which I had never read before, and couldn't find in my Emily Brontë collection of poems.

October 29, 1839

The wind I hear it sighing
With Autumn's saddest sound
Withered leaves as thick are lying
As Spring-flowers on the ground.

This dark night has won me
To wander far away.
Old feelings gather fast upon me
Like vulture round their prey.

Emily invokes all those Autumnal feelings of melancholy and nostalgia for something dear that has been lost. The wind and withered leaves sweep around her like memories which remind her of such a loss. Perhaps her walk on the windswept moors that early evening brought these words into her head swirling with the leaves on the ground. She hears the sighing wind, the sad sounds. She associates the withered leaves to a time of Spring time blooms which hold an abundance of promise, whereas Autumn takes the bloom away. It's a darkening night and she is caught into a time of melancholy. Wrapped in a shawl perhaps, sitting over a slowly diminishing candlestick, she scribbles these words in her notebook. Sitting near a window she hears and sees the Autumnal night grow deeper and more raw.

She climbs into her comfort - her words - flowing out of her pen with ease. It's her source of getting feelings out. Onto the page and out of her cluttered mind. She still has chores to do, but the poem only takes the time of drinking a cup of tea to write. She empties her cup and closes her notebook, sliding it into a small alcove of the bookshelf. Then, rises with a stretch, takes her tea cup to wash up, and works on making bread for the next day, with these words still rummaging around in her mind.