How Still, How Happy!

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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 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 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.

© Emily Jane Brontë