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What kind of living will it be when you - Oh, God! Would you like to live with your soul in the grave?

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
Like
Grave
Graves
Living
Soul
Live
Kind
Would

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The clock strikes off the hollow half-hours of all the life that is left to you, one by one.
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Oh, for the time when I shall sleep Without identity.
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Time brought resignation and a melancholy sweeter than common joy.
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I have fled my country and gone to the heather.
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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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I will walk where my own nature would be leading.
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I'm happiest when most away I can bear my soul from its home of clay On a windy night when the moon is bright And the eye can wander through worlds of light— When I am not and none beside— Nor earth nor sea nor cloudless sky— But only spirit wandering wide Through infinite immensity.
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It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing,’ she muttered.
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He’s more myself than I am
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Hereafter she is only my sister in name not because I disown her, but because she has disowned me.
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Honest people don't hide their deeds.
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How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me.
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I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives!
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I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death and flung it back to me.
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I see heaven's glories shine and faith shines equal.
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He shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
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I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free... Why am I so changed? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills.
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Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.
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wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
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Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
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