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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.

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
Wish
Savage
Girl
Savages
Hills
Among
Changed
Sure
Heather
Half
Heathers
Free
Hardy

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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?
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Last night, I was on the threshold of hell. To-day, I am within sight of my heaven. I have my eyes on it: hardly three feet to sever me!
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It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing,’ she muttered.
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I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow.
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I will walk where my own nature would be leading.
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My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.
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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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Are you acquainted with the mood of mind in which, if you were seated alone, and the cat licking its kitten on the rug before you, you would watch the operation so intently that puss's neglect of one ear would put you seriously out of temper?
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Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper!
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If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable. Because you are not fit to go there, I answered. All sinners would be miserable in heaven.
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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.
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And from the midst of cheerless gloom I passed to bright unclouded day.
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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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If I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it.
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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 left me so long to struggle against death, alone, that I feel and see only death! I feel like death!
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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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Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But if you be afraid of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in.
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wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
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Still let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, And offers for short life, eternal liberty.
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