The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë, How still, how happy! These are words

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How still, how happy! These are words
That once would scarce agree together;
I loved the splashing of the surge,
The changing heaven, the breezy weather,

More than smooth seas and cloudless skies
And solemn, soothing, softened airs,
That in the forest woke no sighs
And from the green spray shook no tears.

How still, how happy! now I feel
Where silence dwells is sweeter far
Than laughing mirth with joyous swell,
However pure its raptures are.

Come, sit down on this sunny stone;
'Tis wintry light o'er flowless moors;
But sit, for we are all alone,
And clear expand heaven's breathless shores.

I could think in the withered grass
Spring's budding wreaths we might discern;
The violet's eye might shyly flash,
And young leaves shoot among the fern.

It is but thought—full many a night
The snow shall clothe these hills afar,
And storms shall add a drearier blight
And winds shall wage a wilder war,

Before the lark may herald in
Fresh foliage twined with blossoms fair,
And summer days again begin
Their glory-haloed crown to wear.

Yet my heart loves December's smile
As much as July's golden gleam!
Then let me sit and watch the while
The blue ice curdling on the stream.

December 7, 1838.

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