Even Emily Brontë, with all her literary prowess and the beauty of her works, has not managed to make me fall in love with poetry. It seems that no matter how hard others may try, no one will be able to succeed in this regard. I have read her poems, delved into the depths of her words, but still, that spark of passion for poetry has not been ignited within me.
Perhaps it is because my heart is not attuned to the rhythm and melody of verse. Maybe I lack the sensitivity and imagination required to truly appreciate the essence of poetry. Whatever the reason, it remains a fact that despite the efforts of great poets like Emily Brontë, I remain unmoved by the charms of poetry.
But who knows? Maybe one day, in some unexpected moment, a poem will touch my heart and open my eyes to the beauty and power of this art form. Until then, I will continue to search for that elusive connection, hoping that someone will finally succeed in making me love poetry as much as they do.
...A happy hour returns to me: a letter spoke to me of firm affection, of being safe and free from the sea. But no other. Fearing, hoping, spring, winter, the harvest passed. And time finally brought the strength to face thoughts that once I could not bear. And I would seek in the summer afternoon the place that saw our last goodbye and there, weaving a chain of visions, I would stay until the curfew bell.
My question regarding this poetry book is: Whose black eyes are they for which Emily weeps so much?