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The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don't turn against him, they crush those beneath them.

Emily Bronte

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Emily Bronte
Age: 30 †
Born: 1818
Born: July 30
Died: 1848
Died: December 19
Novelist
Poet
Thornton
West Yorkshire
Ellis Bell
Emily Jane Brontë
Aimili Bolangte
Emili Bronte
Emily Jane Bronte
Ai-mi-li Po-lang-tʻe
Ėmilii︠a︡ Bronte
エ ミ リ ー ブ ロ ン テ
Beneath
Crush
Tyranny
Slave
Grinds
Turn
Tyrant
Turns
Grind
Slaves
Tyrants

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If I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it.
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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?
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A 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.
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You have been compelled to cultivate your reflective faculties, for want of occasions for frittering your life away in silly trifles.
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He’s more myself than I am
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Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be, And Thou wert left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.
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You're hard to please: so many friends and so few cares, and can't make yourself content.
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He had the hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and previous to following with Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table and muttered, with peculiar gusto, 'Now, my bonny lad, you are mine! And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!
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A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad and a bad one will turn the bonniest into something worse than ugly.
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I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.
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In secret pleasure — secret tears This changeful life has slipped away
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Oh, for the time when I shall sleep Without identity.
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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.
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Terror made me cruel.
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The old church tower and garden wall Are black with autumn rain And dreary winds foreboding call The darkness down again
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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.
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The entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her.
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I cannot express it: but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is, or should be, an existence of yours beyond you.
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Look on the grave where thou must sleep Thy last, and strongest foe It is endurance not to weep, If that repose seem woe.
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