“Stanzas” by Anne Brontë

Anne Brontë

I have to say this isn’t my favorite of her poems.


OH, weep not, love! each tear that springs
  In those dear eyes of thine,
To me a keener suffering brings,
  Than if they flowed from mine.

And do not droop! however drear
  The fate awaiting thee;
For my sake combat pain and care,
  And cherish life for me!

I do not fear thy love will fail;
  Thy faith is true, I know;
But, oh, my love! thy strength is frail
  For such a life of woe.

Were’t not for this, I well could trace
  (Though banished long from thee,)
Life’s rugged path, and boldly face
  The storms that threaten me.


Fear not for meI’ve steeled my mind
  Sorrow and strife to greet;
Joy with my love I leave behind,
  Care with my friends I meet.

A mother’s sad reproachful eye,
  A father’s scowling brow
But he may frown and she may sigh:
  I will not break my vow!

I love my mother, I revere
  My sire, but fear not me
Believe that Death alone can tear
  This faithful heart from thee.



First Publication: Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell London: Aylott and Jones, 8, Paternoster Row, 1846. pp. 59-60.


Free Kindle Book of the Day

The Free Kindle Book of the Day is Bound by Blood  by Tara Manderino. From the synopsis: 


Product Description

In his two-hundred and fifty years as a vampire, Alex only observed, never intervened with any of his progeny, yet what else can he do when a little girl of his lineage is kidnapped? When he meets Lisa, the child’s nanny, his protective instincts kick into gear, yet he finds he must expose her to ever increasing danger as they search for the missing child. To protect Lisa from perils she is unaware of, he harbors her in his own home.
With Lisa’s help, Alex is able to determine who has the child. Learning why she was abducted rocks him on his heels and sets off a transcontinental search that leads to ancient myths of the Cardinal’s Ruby; the stone in Alex’s ring.
Alex and Lisa have one shot to save the child, but will they be able to stop the impending destruction raining down?

“Anticipation” by Emily Bronte

Emily Brontë

HOW beautiful the earth is still, 
To theehow full of happiness ! 
How little fraught with real ill, 
Or unreal phantoms of distress ! 
How spring can bring thee glory, yet, 
And summer win thee to forget

December’s sullen time ! 
Why dost thou hold the treasure fast, 
Of youth’s delight, when youth is past, 
  And thou art near thy prime ?

When those who were thy own compeers, 
Equals in fortune and in years, 
Have seen their morning melt in tears, 
  To clouded, smileless day; 
Blest, had they died untried and young, 
Before their hearts went wandering wrong, 
Poor slaves, subdued by passions strong, 

A weak and helpless prey !


” Because, I hoped while they enjoyed, 
And, by fulfilment, hope destroyed; 
As children hope, with trustful breast, 
I waited blissand cherished rest. 
A thoughtful spirit taught me, soon, 
That we must long till life be done; 
That every phase of earthly joy 
Must always fade, and always cloy:

This I foresawand would not chase 
  The fleeting treacheries; 
But, with firm foot and tranquil face, 
Held backward from that tempting race, 
Gazed o’er the sands the waves efface, 
  To the enduring seas

There cast my anchor of desire 
Deep in unknown eternity; 
Nor ever let my spirit tire, 
With looking for what is to be !

It is hope’s spell that glorifies, 
Like youth, to my maturer eyes, 
All Nature’s million mysteries, 
  The fearful and the fair 
Hope soothes me in the griefs I know; 
She lulls my pain for others’ woe, 
And makes me strong to undergo 
  What I am born to bear.

Glad comforter ! will I not brave, 
Unawed, the darkness of the grave ? 
Nay, smile to hear Death’s billows rave 
  Sustained, my guide, by thee ? 
The more unjust seems present fate, 
The more my spirit swells elate, 
Strong, in thy strength, to anticipate 
  Rewarding destiny !” 



Click here to read a short biography of Emily Bronte


First Publication: Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell London: Aylott and Jones, 8, Paternoster Row, 1846. pp. 56-58.


Deno Sandz on “Blood Plantation”

Writer's Block Party!

The Novel, “Blood Plantation” is a historical fiction set at a Bed and Breakfast owned by the great, great, great, granddaughter of Captain Rollins the 3rd once known as the big house on a plantation in Virginian.  The antagonist, the SOTO (The Soul of the Ocean) is a captured slave from the southern tip of Africa, thrown overboard near the shores of Shonwaay, Virginian where the Shonwaayians now call, “The Shores of the Evil Soul” in 1810 after a mutiny he spearheaded leading to the murder of crew members, slaves, and his wife by the evil hands of Captain Rollins the 3rd who owned the plantation.  It’s now 2010 and another fifty years has dawned and the SOTO has awakened again to seek his vengeance against the last of Rollins’ blood line for the death of his wife.

Sandz explores some of the most important connections with slavery such as pain…

View original post 246 more words

Some good tips for bloggers

Free Kindle Book of the Day

The Free Kindle Book of the Day is Promise Me This by Cathy Gohlke. From the synopsis: 



“This dramatic and heart-wrenching interpretation by two-time Christy Award winner Gohlke (William Henry Is a Fine Name;  I Have Seen Him in the Watchfires) will enthrall fans of character-driven CF and readers who enjoy Francine Rivers.”–Library Journal

Taking a break from work to watch the Titanic set sail on its maiden voyage, Michael Dunnagan meets passenger Owen Allen and decides to stow away in hopes of convincing Owen to let him join his uncle’s business in America. But the so-called unsinkable ship strikes an iceberg, and a dying Owen extracts a promise from Michael that he will care for Owen’s relatives in America and his sister Annie, still in England. Annie can’t bear the thought that Michael lived when her brother was lost, but the two develop a friendship through the letters they exchange. When World War I breaks out and Annie’s letters stop, Michael drops everything to find the woman he has come to love. VERDICT No matter how many times the Titanic’s sinking has been depicted in film and in print, the 1912 maritime tragedy continues to fascinate us. This dramatic and heart-wrenching interpretation by two-time Christy Award winner Gohlke (William Henry Is a Fine NameI Have Seen Him in the Watchfires) will enthrall fans of character-driven CF and readers who enjoy Francine Rivers. (Library Journal )

One afternoon, young Michael Dunnagan steals away from his job to see the Titanic off. Through a sudden turn of events, he meets Owen Allen, a young man off to America to help his uncle in a gardening business. After a series of deceptions, Michael, who is not supposed to be on the ship, boards the Titanic, hoping to follow Owen to America and join him in this new business venture. Owen has left behind his sister, Annie, promising her that he will call for her once he is settled in America. When the Titanic sinks, Owen dies and asks Michael to take care of his sister. Annie and Michael begin a correspondence that at first is friendly, but soon turns romantic. When WWI intervenes, it appears that the two may have lost each other because of various circumstances on both sides of the Atlantic, but love and grace prevail in the end. Two-time Christy Award winner Gohlke tells a gripping tale of sacrifice, loss, love, and hope against the setting of familiar historical events; the loss of the Titanic marks its centennial in 2012. (Publishers Weekly )



Stunning. Simply one of the best— if not most powerful—books I have ever read. (Julie Lessman, author of A Heart Revealed )

In My Mailbox


In My Mailbox is a meme from The Story Siren that any book blogger can join. 

A mother that disappeared without a trace, a sudden tragic death and then being forcibly uprooted from your home. That is what Zach, a thirteen year old boy endures when a ghostly girl kills his father. Being strong willed, Zach is determined not to leave his home in New Orleans until supernatural events occur that convince him to move in with his great aunt who lives on the grounds of a haunted plantation.
It is there that Zach encounters a Cajun boy that never grows old and a creature that changes his life forever. The furry hunchback creature stood two feet tall and wore a bright yellow vest. As it moved about on two webbed feet, it’s long scaly rat-like tail swished about. When it spoke through it’s orange colored buckteeth, it’s cat-like whiskers twitched. “Mooshka Kalina!” the creature shrilled in a high-pitched voice, “I’m not a rat, I’m a nutria, and my name is KEKAJU.” Kekaju convinces Zach that he has been chosen to help him conquer the last remaining evil Crocodile in Louisiana; who gained control of Kekaju’s home the Hidden Swamp.  
            Parallel worlds of wicked reptiles, animals, ghouls, angels and zombies form a supernatural mix that thrust Zach in the forefront of a battle between good and evil.

About the Author

Robert W. Sweeting was born and raised in Florida. He lived in New Orleans, Louisiana for several years. It is here that he fell in love with the mysteries of the swamp. He now resides on the Mississippi Gulf Coast where he writes and works. 

In My Mailbox

In My Mailbox is a meme from The Story Siren that any book blogger can join.


16 year old Karlie has had a pretty normal life… But when her Mom dies she is forced to move over 1,000 miles away to live with her Dad. That’s when things start getting weird.



She can’t explain the earthquakes that nobody else feels, or why she no longer sleeps. But most of all she doesn’t know why she trusts Shane so much, even though his Dad wants her dead.
Suddenly, Karlie’s normal life is turned upside down and she enters a world she never dreamed could really exist.
When a lowlife at her cafeteria job tries to molest her, she’s not surprised. When he takes another try and brings a friend, she’s not unprepared. But the more she shakes them off, the harder they come back, until Darla’s working her way up the org chart of an unsavory local business selling homemade porn cast with unwilling teenagers.
Darla just wants to be left alone, the same way her daddy wanted to be left alone. She’s trying to make a normal life where no one needs to die.
But just like they wouldn’t let her daddy alone, they can’t seem to let Darla alone either. And just like her daddy, Darla has skills she can bring to bear on a difficult situation.



Raised by her father to be a remorseless killer, Darla is trying to reboot her life as a college freshman in a bland Midwestern town.


About the Author, Jem Fox: Jem Fox grew up wandering the bluffs near the confluence of the Illinois River and the great Mississippi, barefoot and bramble-torn. She is descended from a long line of storytellers and liars.




“Frances” by Charlotte Bronte

Charlotte Brontë

I believe the poem is about Charlotte’s brother Branwell, who suffered from alcoholism.


SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, 
But, rising, quits her restless bed, 
And walks where some beclouded beams 
Of moonlight through the hall are shed.


Obedient to the goad of grief, 
Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, 
In varying motion seek relief 
From the Eumenides of woe.

Wringing her hands, at intervals 
But long as mute as phantom dim 
She glides along the dusky walls, 
Under the black oak rafters, grim.

The close air of the grated tower 
Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, 
And, though so late and lone the hour, 
Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet;

And on the pavement, spread before 
The long front of the mansion grey, 
Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, 
Which pale on grass and granite lay.

Not long she stayed where misty moon 
And shimmering stars could on her look, 
But through the garden arch-way, soon 
Her strange and gloomy path she took.

Some firs, coeval with the tower, 
Their straight black boughs stretched o’er her head, 
Unseen, beneath this sable bower, 
Rustled her dress and rapid tread.

There was an alcove in that shade, 
Screening a rustic-seat and stand; 
Weary she sat her down and laid 
Her hot brow on her burning hand.

To solitude and to the night, 
Some words she now, in murmurs, said; 
And, trickling through her fingers white, 
Some tears of misery she shed.

” God help me, in my grievous need, 
God help me, in my inward pain; 
Which cannot ask for pity’s meed, 
Which has no license to complain;

Which must be borne, yet who can bear, 
Hours long, days long, a constant weight 
The yoke of absolute despair, 
A suffering wholly desolate ?

Who can for ever crush the heart, 
Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ? 
Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, 
With outward calm, mask inward strife ?”

She waitedas for some reply;
The still and cloudy night gave none; 
Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, 
Her heavy plaint again begun.


” UnlovedI love; unweptI weep; 
Grief I restrainhope I repress: 
Vain is this anguishfixed and deep; 
Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.

My love awakes no love again, 
My tears collect, and fall unfelt; 
My sorrow touches none with pain, 
My humble hopes to nothing melt.

For me the universe is dumb, 
Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; 
Life I must bound, existence sum 
In the strait limits of one mind;

That mind my own. Oh ! narrow cell; 
Darkimagelessa living tomb ! 
There must I sleep, there wake and dwell 
Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom.”

Again she paused; a moan of pain, 
A stifled sob, alone was heard; 
Long silence followedthen again, 
Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.

” Must it be so ? Is this my fate ?
Can I nor struggle, nor contend ?
And am I doomed for years to wait,
Watching death’s lingering axe descend ?

And when it falls, and when I die, 
What follows ? Vacant nothingness ? 
The blank of lost identity ? 
Erasure both of pain and bliss ?

I’ve heard of heavenI would believe; 
For if this earth indeed be all, 
Who longest lives may deepest grieve, 
Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call.

Oh ! leaving disappointment here, 
Will man find hope on yonder coast ? 
Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, 
And oft in clouds is wholly lost.

Will he hope’s source of light behold, 
Fruition’s spring, where doubts expire, 
And drink, in waves of living gold, 
Contentment, full, for long desire ?

Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ? 
Rest, which was weariness on earth ? 
Knowledge, which, if o’er life it beamed, 
Served but to prove it void of worth ?

Will he find love without lust’s leaven, 
Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, 
To all with equal bounty given, 
In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ?


Will he, from penal sufferings free, 
Released from shroud and wormy clod, 
All calm and glorious, rise and see 
Creation’s SireExistence’ God ?

Then, glancing back on Time’s brief woes, 
Will he behold them, fading, fly; 
Swept from Eternity’s repose, 
Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ?

If soendure, my weary frame; 
And when thy anguish strikes too deep, 
And when all troubled burns life’s flame,
Think of the quiet, final sleep;

Think of the glorious waking-hour, 
Which will not dawn on grief and tears, 
But on a ransomed spirit’s power, 
Certain, and free from mortal fears.

Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, 
Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, 
With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, 
But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end.

And when thy opening eyes shall see
Mementos, on the chamber wall,
Of one who has forgotten thee,
Shed not the tear of acrid gall.

The tear which, welling from the heart, 
Burns where its drop corrosive falls, 
And makes each nerve, in torture, start, 
At feelings it too well recalls:

When the sweet hope of being loved, 
Threw Eden sunshine on life’s way; 
When every sense and feeling proved 
Expectancy of brightest day.

When the hand trembled to receive 
A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, 
And the heart ventured to believe,
Another heart esteemed it dear.

When words, half love, all tenderness, 
Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, 
When the long, sunny days of bliss, 
Only by moonlight nights were broken.

Till drop by drop, the cup of joy 
Filled full, with purple light, was glowing, 
And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high, 
Still never dreamt the overflowing.

It fell not with a sudden crashing, 
It poured not out like open sluice; 
No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, 
Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice.

I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, 
My eager lips approached the brim; 
The movement only seemed to waste it, 
It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim.

These I have drank, and they for ever 
Have poisoned life and love for me; 
A draught from Sodom’s lake could never 
More fiery, salt, and bitter, be.

Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion; 
Joy, but the desert’s flying stream; 
And, glancing back on long delusion,
My memory grasps a hollow dream.

Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling, 
I never knew, and cannot learn, 
Nor why my lover’s eye, congealing, 
Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern.

Nor wherefore, friendship’s forms forgetting, 
He careless left, and cool withdrew; 
Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, 
Nor even one glance of comfort threw.

And neither word nor token sending,
Of kindness, since the parting day,
His course, for distant regions bending,
Went, self-contained and calm, away.


Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, 
Which will not weaken, cannot die, 
Hasten thy work of desolation, 
And let my tortured spirit fly !

Vain as the passing gale, my crying; 
Though lightning-struck, I must live on; 
I know, at heart, there is no dying 
Of love, and ruined hope, alone.

Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour, 
Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow, 
And many a storm of wildest rigour 
Shall yet break o’er my shivered bough.

Rebellious now to blank inertion, 
My unused strength demands a task; 
Travel, and toil, and full exertion, 
Are the last, only boon I ask.

Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming 
Of death, and dubious life to come ? 
I see a nearer beacon gleaming 
Over dejection’s sea of gloom.

The very wildness of my sorrow 
Tells me I yet have innate force; 
My track of life has been too narrow, 
Effort shall trace a broader course.

The world is not in yonder tower, 
Earth is not prisoned in that room, 
‘Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour, 
I’ve sat, the slave and prey of gloom.

One feelingturned to utter anguish, 
Is not my being’s only aim; 
When, lorn and loveless, life will languish, 
But courage can revive the flame.

He, when he left me, went a roving
To sunny climes, beyond the sea; 
And I, the weight of woe removing, 
Am free and fetterless as he.

New scenes, new language, skies less clouded,
May once more wake the wish to live; 
Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded, 
New pictures to the mind may give.

New forms and faces, passing ever, 
May hide the one I still retain, 
Defined, and fixed, and fading never, 
Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain.

And we might meettime may have changed him;
Chance may reveal the mystery,
The secret influence which estranged him;
Love may restore him yet to me.

False thoughtfalse hopein scorn be banished ! 
I am not lovednor loved have been; 
Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished, 
Traitors ! mislead me not again !

To words like yours I bid defiance, 
‘Tis such my mental wreck have made; 
Of God alone, and self-reliance, 
I ask for solacehope for aid.

Morn comesand ere meridian glory
O’er these, my natal woods, shall smile, 
Both lonely wood and mansion hoary 
I’ll leave behind, full many a mile.



First Publication: Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell London: Aylott and Jones, 8, Paternoster Row, 1846. pp. 46-56.


Click here for a short biography of Charlotte Bronte

Stacy Green, Psychological Suspense Author

Due to this post from Roni Loren (thank you for the warning, Roni) I’ve decided to remove most photos from Thriller Thursday. I hope you’re still able to enjoy them!

It’s early Monday morning, and I didn’t have my post for today planned. But there’s a question that’s been rattling around in my head. If you could have one hour with ANY fictional literary character, who would it be, and why?

For me, it’s the Vampire Lestat. And let me say, I loved Tom Cruise as Lestat. He did a wonderful job, but any picture of him is still Tom Cruise as Lestat. This beautiful piece, however, is a beautiful rendition of how I always envisioned Lestat. No, I didn’t draw it. Click on the image for the artist.

So why Lestat? I’ve always been a reader. The earliest books I remember enjoying are Little House on the Prairie, Nancy…

View original post 418 more words