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The clock strikes off the hollow half-hours of all the life that is left to you, one by one.
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
Hours
Half
Left
Life
Hollow
Clock
Strikes
More quotes by Emily Bronte
Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
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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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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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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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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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You must forgive me, for I struggled only for you.
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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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I have to remind myself to breathe -- almost to remind my heart to beat!
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They forgot everything the minute they were together again.
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It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing,’ she muttered.
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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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I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen, and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him.
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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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Joseph is the wearisomest and self-righteous Pharisee who ever ransacked the Bible to rake the promises to himself and fling the curses on his neighbor.
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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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No coward soul is mine.
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I got the sexton, who was digging Linton's grave, to remove the earth off her coffin lid, and I opened it. I thought, once, I would have stayed there, when I saw her face again - it is hers yet - he had hard work to stir me but he said it would change, if the air blew on it.
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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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