What kind of living will it be when you – Oh, God! Would you like to live with your soul in the grave?
EMILY BRONTECold 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?
More Emily Bronte Quotes
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And, 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 BRONTE -
I have fled my country and gone to the heather.
EMILY BRONTE -
I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy, and free.
EMILY BRONTE -
It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,’ he answered. ‘Kiss me again; and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?
EMILY BRONTE -
I can say with sincerity that I like cats. A cat is an animal which has more human feelings than almost any other.
EMILY BRONTE -
If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn’t love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.
EMILY BRONTE -
You know, I’ve had a bitter, hard life since I last heard your voice and if I’ve survived it’s all because of you.
EMILY BRONTE -
I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives!
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 -
I see heaven’s glories shine and faith shines equal.
EMILY BRONTE -
Heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy.
EMILY BRONTE -
A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.
EMILY BRONTE -
No coward soul is mine.
EMILY BRONTE -
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 -
Worthless as wither’d weeds.
EMILY BRONTE