Your presence is a moral poison that would contaminate the most virtuous.
EMILY BRONTEYour presence is a moral poison that would contaminate the most virtuous.
EMILY BRONTEI gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death; and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen, and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him.
EMILY BRONTESweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world’s tide is bearing me along; Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.
EMILY BRONTEThe entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her.
EMILY BRONTEThe clock strikes off the hollow half-hours of all the life that is left to you, one by one.
EMILY BRONTEHe’ll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to loved or hated again.
EMILY BRONTEI pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be — that proves I love him better than myself.
EMILY BRONTEHow cruel, your veins are full of ice-water and mine are boiling.
EMILY BRONTEYou have been compelled to cultivate your reflective faculties, for want of occasions for frittering your life away in silly trifles.
EMILY BRONTEEvery leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
EMILY BRONTETerror made me cruel; and finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes.
EMILY BRONTENo coward soul is mine.
EMILY BRONTEI love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions and him entirely and all together.
EMILY BRONTEAnd, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?
EMILY BRONTEProud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.
EMILY BRONTEA heaven so clear, an earth so calm, So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; And, deepening still the dreamlike charm, Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
EMILY BRONTE