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Fair as a lily, and not only the pride of life, but the desire of his eyes

Charlotte Bronte

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Charlotte Bronte
Age: 38 †
Born: 1816
Born: April 21
Died: 1855
Died: March 31
Novelist
Poet
Thornton
West Yorkshire
Syarŭllotʻŭ Pŭrontʻe
Ш. Бронте
Syarŭllotʻŭ Bŭrontʻe
Xialuodi Bolangte
Шарлотта Бронте
Sharlotta Bronte
Charles Wellesley
Charlotte Bronte
Cārla$15ṭti Pirāṇṭē
Douro
Karlotta Bronte
Mrs. Arthur Bell Nicholls
Tree
Florian Wellesley
Lord Charles Albert
Currer Bell
Charlotte Nicholls
Mrs. A. B. Nicholls
Hsia-lo-ti Po-lang-tʻe
Pride
Eyes
Eye
Desire
Life
Lily
Lilies
Fairs
Fair

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It would not be wicked to love me. It would to obey you.
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I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me.
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We wove a web in childhood, A web of sunny air We dug a spring in infancy Of water pure and fair We sowed in youth a mustard seed, We cut an almond rod We are now grown up to riper age— Are they withered in the sod?
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A beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance.
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The City seems so much more in earnest: its business, its rush, its roar are such serious things, sights and sounds. The City is getting its living - the West-End but enjoying its pleasure.
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Strange that grief should now almost choke me, because another human being's eye has failed to greet mine.
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Am I hideous, Jane? Very, sir: you always were, you know.
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Die without me if you will. Live for me if you dare.
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I could not answer the ceaseless inward question-why I thus suffered now, at the distance of-I will not say how many years, I see it clearly.
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Shake me off, then, sir--push me away for I'll not leave you of my own accord.
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We should acknowledge God merciful, but not always for us comprehensible.
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While I loved, and while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed!
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He is not to them what he is to me.
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I scorn your idea of love,' I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. 'I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it.
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Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it for myself. We were born to strive and endure - you as well as I: do so. You will forget me before I forget you.
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My future husband was becoming to me my whole world and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for His creature: of whom I had made an idol.
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You are afraid of me, because I talk like a sphinx.
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He was the first to recognise me, and to love what he saw.
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A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.
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The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway and asserting a right to predominate: to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last yes,--and to speak.
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