The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me, And I cannot, cannot go.
EMILY BRONTEYou have been compelled to cultivate your reflective faculties, for want of occasions for frittering your life away in silly trifles.
More Emily Bronte Quotes
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The winter wind is loud and wild, Come close to me, my darling child; Forsake thy books, and mate less play; And, while the night is gathering grey, We’ll talk its pensive hours away.
EMILY BRONTE -
Cold in the earth and the deeps now piled above thee, Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last byTime’s all-serving wave?
EMILY BRONTE -
You have left me so long to struggle against death, alone, that I feel and see only death! I feel like death!
EMILY BRONTE -
He’ll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to loved or hated again.
EMILY BRONTE -
By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.
EMILY BRONTE -
I understand that most ladies tend to prefer lap dogs…. Perhaps I am an exception.
EMILY BRONTE -
Hereafter she is only my sister in name; not because I disown her, but because she has disowned me.
EMILY BRONTE -
There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou – Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
EMILY BRONTE -
A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.
EMILY BRONTE -
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
EMILY BRONTE -
No coward soul is mine.
EMILY BRONTE -
I 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 BRONTE -
Terror 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 BRONTE -
Honest people don’t hide their deeds.
EMILY BRONTE -
The clock strikes off the hollow half-hours of all the life that is left to you, one by one.
EMILY BRONTE