How still, how happy! by Emily Bronte How still, how happy!
Those are words That once would scarce agree together; I loved the plashing 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's most joyous swell However pure its raptures are. Come, sit down on this sunny stone: 'Tis wintry light o'er flowerless moors - But sit - for we are all alone And clear expand heaven's breathless shores. I could think inthe withered grass 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 those 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 beam; Then let us sit and watch the while The blue ice curdling on the stream -
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