“The Prisoner” – Emily Bront

The captive raised her face; it was as soft and mild
As sculptured marble saint; or slumbering unweaned child;
It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair,
Pain could not trace a line, or grief a shadow there!

The captive raised her hand and pressed it to her brow;
“I have been struck,” she said, “and I am suffering now;
Yet these are little worth, your bolts and irons strong:
And, were they forged in steel, they could not hold me long.”

I happily discovered that the author of one of my favourite novels “Wuthering Heights”, also wrote poetry. This is an excerpt from her poem written in 1845. I love when I am able to associate my own feelings to something written almost two centuries ago. Similar to me, the Bront sisters grew up in an over-protective family and longed to be free. I am not bound by chains or walls, but by traditions and family ties. That is not to say that I do not love my family, I do – but I yearn for certain freedoms, and ‘they cannot hold me long.’

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