Anne Brontë

All for myself the sigh would swell, The tear of anguish start; I little knew what wilder woe Had filled the Poet's heart.I did not know the nights of gloom, The days of misery; The long, long years of dark despair,

I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect ... But I wish it would please God to spare me not only for Papa's and Charlotte's sakes, but because I long to do some good in the …