Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/190

134 XXX

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,