A sunlit estate with gleaming ivy and silver beeches might sound idyllic, but the speaker of Anne Brontë’s “Home” longs to escape it. She watches the winter wind crash through the beautiful trees, then fade, and all she can think of are her own “barren hills” where the air bites colder and only a few stunted, wind-bent trees stand. The carefully arranged gardens, the trimmed borders, the soft lawns — none of it moves her. What she aches for is a cramped, weed-choked patch of ground enclosed by grey walls: a place most would overlook. The grandeur around her feels hollow; it invites the body to wander but leaves her spirit stranded. The poem builds a wistful, almost aching mood, setting a polished, sunlit scene against a wild internal landscape of loss. Every polished detail of the mansion only sharpens her hunger for the rough, lonely home that holds her heart.
Home — Summary
How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays! While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays. That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies; And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winter sighs:
Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, And now in distance dies. But give me back my barren hills Where colder breezes rise;
Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees Can yield an answering swell, But where a wilderness of heath Returns the sound as well.
For yonder garden, fair and wide, With groves of evergreen, Long winding walks, and borders trim, And velvet lawns between;
Restore to me that little spot, With grey walls compassed round, Where knotted grass neglected lies, And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high Invites the foot to roam, And though its halls are fair within -- Oh, give me back my HOME!