The Letter
Charlotte Brontë
1816 to 1855
Track 1
Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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She puts them quick aside,
Three seas and many a league of land
Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain rare,
Darkened and dimmed and wet.
And sealed the letter lies;
Is that her god? I cannot tell;
But look again; inured to shade
A firm, determined face.
Nor knows that band of crystals bright,
Descends a marble stair.
'Tis sent from England's shore.
Is in that deep blue sky;
Those tears flow over, wonder not,
She, 'mid that smiling English scene,
Her eye a moment met
Nay, watch her still more closely, ask
How eagerly her youthful brow
And fast her pen and fingers fly,
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then
A brow high, broad, and white,
Why does she not a moment glance
To whom, then, doth she write?
The golden sun of June declines,
From thence, to slopes of messy grass,
She comes not forth to-day.
Her soul is in th'absorbing task;
The clouded mass of mystery
Th'impending picture, then it fell
Where do they turn, as now her pen
Her own eyes' serious light;
When from that sky you turn,
From that sun's deepening glow.
There is an open door of glass
Unmarked it falls, for she no less
Sloped, as if leaning on the air,
'Tis there she turns; you may not see
Hangs o'er th'unfinished line?
Is bent in thought above!
And mark in heaven the radiant dance
It has not caught her eye.
Her heart of hearts must be!
One picture meets the gaze.
Falls glittering at her feet;
Pursues her labour sweet.
Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek
Your eyes now faintly trace
A moment more, her task is done,
Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom
And from th'expanse of that green park,
For by the inscription see
Unsmiling, earnest, still,
O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase,
Around the threshold grow;
You scarce may aught discern.
How fast her fingers move!
Weeps for his wished return.
And now, towards the setting sun
What is she writing? Watch her now,
Distinct, what form defines
Their leaves and blossoms shade the room
It slips down her silken dress,
In what a strange and distant spot
Where every furrow seems to speak
Ere read by him to whose loved hand
The white road, far away,
Urged by her eager will.
Did in their dark spheres shine?
That letter must pass o'er,
Of mind and moral might.
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate,
Of evening's rosy hours?
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light,
O look again! Still fixed her eye,
In vain for her light footsteps wait,
Remote colonial wilds detain
The very loveliest hour that shines,
She turns her tearful eyes.
A stalwart form, a massive head,
Close by that lady's chair,
Between the clustering flowers,
Yon broad gold frame confines.
Her hasty touch untied.
Her husband, loved though stern;
The summer-parlour looks so dark,