That is how I’m loved! Well, never mind. That is not my Heathcliff. I shall love mine yet; and take him with me: he’s in my soul.
EMILY BRONTEBut you might as well bid a man struggling in the water, rest within arm’s length of the shore! I must reach it first, and then I’ll rest.
More Emily Bronte Quotes
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How cruel, your veins are full of ice-water and mine are boiling.
EMILY BRONTE -
I 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 BRONTE -
Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
EMILY BRONTE -
Look on the grave where thou must sleep Thy last, and strongest foe; It is endurance not to weep, If that repose seem woe.
EMILY BRONTE -
I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives!
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 -
No coward soul is mine.
EMILY BRONTE -
I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing.
EMILY BRONTE -
He might as well plant an oak in a flowerpot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares!
EMILY BRONTE -
I cannot express it: but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is, or should be, an existence of yours beyond you.
EMILY BRONTE -
Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly?
EMILY BRONTE -
Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
EMILY BRONTE -
It is for God to punish wicked people; we should learn to forgive.
EMILY BRONTE -
Sweet 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 BRONTE -
Worthless as wither’d weeds.
EMILY BRONTE