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It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.

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
Embracing
Thorn
Bending

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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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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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They forgot everything the minute they were together again.
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I see heaven's glories shine and faith shines equal.
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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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Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.
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I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow.
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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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It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing,’ she muttered.
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Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper!
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In secret pleasure — secret tears This changeful life has slipped away
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If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.
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But 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.
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He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction, a look of hatred unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.
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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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Nonsense, do you imagine he has thought as much of you as you have of him?
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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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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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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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The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don't turn against him, they crush those beneath them.
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