Speak of the North! A Lonely Moor

by Charlotte Bronte

　　Silent and dark and tractless swells,

　　The waves of some wild streamlet pour

　　Hurriedly through its ferny dells.

　　Profoundly still the twilight air,

　　Lifeless the landscape; so we deem

　　Till like a phantom gliding near

　　A stag bends down to drink the stream.

　　And far away a mountain zone,

　　A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies,

　　And one star, large and soft and lone,

　　Silently lights the unclouded skies.