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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115622" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Loud Without the Wind Was Roaring</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Loud without the wind was roaring<br> Through th' autumnal sky;<br>Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,<br> Spoke of winter nigh.<br> All too like that dreary eve,<br> Did my exiled spirit grieve.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Grieved at first, but grieved not long,<br> Sweet—how softly sweet!—it came;<br>Wild words of an ancient song,<br> Undefined, without a name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'It was spring, and the skylark was singing';<br> Those words they awakened a spell;<br>They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,<br> Nor absence, nor distance can quell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the gloom of a cloudy November<br> They uttered the music of May;<br>They kindled the perishing ember<br> Into fervour that could not decay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,<br> West-wind, in thy glory and pride!<br>Oh! call me from valley and lowland,<br> To walk by the hill-torrent's side!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is swelled with the first snowy weather;<br> The rocks they are icy and hoar,<br>And sullenly waves the long heather,<br> And the fern leaves are sunny no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are no yellow stars on the mountain<br> The bluebells have long died away<br>From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain—<br> From the side of the wintry brae.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But lovelier than corn-fields all waving<br> In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,<br>Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,<br> And the crags where I wandered of old.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;<br> How sweetly it brought back to me<br>The time when nor labour nor dreaming<br> Broke the sleep of the happy and free!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven<br> Was melting to amber and blue,<br>And swift were the wings to our feet given,<br> As we traversed the meadows of dew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass<br> Like velvet beneath us should lie!<br>For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass<br> Rose sunny against the clear sky!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For the moors, where the linnet was trilling<br> Its song on the old granite stone;<br>Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling<br> Every breast with delight like its own!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What language can utter the feeling<br> Which rose, when in exile afar,<br>On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,<br> I saw the brown heath growing there?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was scattered and stunted, and told me<br> That soon even that would be gone:<br>It whispered, 'The grim walls enfold me,<br> I have bloomed in my last summer's sun.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But not the loved music, whose waking<br> Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,<br>Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking<br> Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The spirit which bent 'neath its power,<br> How it longed—how it burned to be free!<br>If I could have wept in that hour,<br> Those tears had been heaven to me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well—well; the sad minutes are moving,<br> Though loaded with trouble and pain;<br>And some time the loved and the loving<br> Shall meet on the mountains again!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Emily+Bront%C3%AB">Emily Brontë</a> from <i>Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115622" data-title="Loud Without the Wind Was Roaring de Emily Brontë" data-description="Loud without the wind was roaring/ Through th' autumnal sky;/Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,/ Spoke of winter nigh./ All too like that dreary eve,/ Did my exiled spirit grieve./Grieved at first, but grieved not long,/ Sweet—how softly swee..."></div>
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