Emily Brontë’s speaker looks back on a younger self who couldn’t imagine stillness and happiness going together — she once thrived on stormy seas, gusty weather, and the splash of waves. Now she finds a deep quiet sweetness in silence and calm. The change feels personal and hard-won. She invites someone to sit beside her on a sunlit stone in the middle of the winter moors, flowerless and bare. Alone together under a clear, breathless sky, she lets herself picture hidden spring growth in the dead grass, but she isn’t rushing toward it. She knows fierce storms and long nights must come first. What’s striking is her steady, quiet declaration that her heart loves December’s smile as much as summer’s golden light. The poem creates a mood of serene acceptance — an intimate, unhurried pause to watch ice curdle on a stream and to value the present season without longing for any other.
How still, how happy! — Summary
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 -