Blanche Dismorr: Charlotte Brontë

“O proud! O passionate! what desperate pain
Subdued that haughty soul, that iron will—
Bowed that stiff neck, wore that wild spirit, till
It bit the dust, and, broken, rose again!

What feverish, trembling fingers held the pen
Which traced those delicate characters—the cry
Of one too hungry-hearted, plain and shy,
Baffled and stung by the strange moods of men.

Discarded fragments, eloquent and rare,
Carelessly torn by man without regret;
Roughly sewn up, with some parts missing yet,
How many a woman’s heart lies bleeding there! ”