Gail White

Anne Bronte

For once, just once, I exercised my will
and made poor Charlotte bring me here to die,
to Scarbro’, by the sea. And on the way
I saw York Minster, glass and stone like snow,
so delicate, and thought, “Man can do that.”

Always the quiet one, I sheltered in
the wake of my bold sisters like our great
dog Keeper who was Emily’s guard and slave.
Emily ruled our private world. We made
the Gondals live and made them take Gaaldene.
In the kitchen, working under Tabby’s eye,
or sewing by the fire, we dreamed out
the poems we set down later — all those kings
and princes, rebels, sages, whose desire
was love, adventure, conquest, or revenge
of wrongs. We gave them such romantic names
as Charlotte would have laughed at, but we tried
to make them live. They lived at least for us.

I had my dream of love. Emily, I think,
and Charlotte, never did — too mystical
was one, too practical the other. They
could see our narrow prospects all too well:
a school the most we could aspire to.
Bur wasn’t so impossible,
was even likely, when new curates came
to Papa’s church and faced down Emily’s
aloofness, Charlotte’s ridicule, and Branwell’s
gibes at religion. Someone might have seen
the quiet, pious sister looking on,
silent but sympathetic! Curate’s wife
is just the role that would have suited me.
I might have been a blessing to some village,
and to my children…well, read Agnes Gray
and see my poor dreams realized in print,
not elsewhere.
not elsewhere. If my life were dressed,
it would be dressed in gray. I had to teach,
what else? Long dreary years as governess
in other people’s homes. I had to see
my brilliant brother shame us all and die
of drink, dying by inches while we paced
the parlor late at night and planned our school
and when that failed, our books. And when the books
came out, oh what a quivering of success,
what dazzling hopes, especially for Charlotte!
And then the blow: Emily’s cough grew worse,
she refused care or medicine, and died
just before Christmas, under heavy snow.

Now the tide laps the shore, the gentle waves
of death rise warm and whispering, and I slip
and slip, so quiet, so content. I seem
a little thing for that immensity
to swallow up, and yet I do not fear
the end. For God our Compensation keeps
for us, forever, all the blessedness
that was denied us here. And He makes great
our little goodness and our little gifts
of beauty. I was in York Minster once
and saw the windows, those five sister jewels
that shine and shine, and thought, “We have done that.”

Companion Piece

How endearing to know Mrs. White,
Whose verses are scattered like manna!
She likes to drink Bourbon at night,
But they do that in South Lou’siana.

Her manner is somewhat reclusive.
Her cats are named Pushkin and Daisy.
Her light verse is seldom abusive.
She thinks counting carbs is plain crazy.

She has traveled in Russia and Greece
And would like to go on to Tibet.
She is childless but does have a niece.
She’s not rich and famous just yet.

Her loved ones have called her a cynic.
She drinks (as aforesaid) at night.
Before she checks into a clinic,
How endearing to know Mrs. White.