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wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.

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
Slumber
Benign
Wondered
Quiet
Imagine
Unquiet
Anyone
Slumbers
Earth
Sleepers
Ever
Fluttering

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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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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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Shall Earth no more inspire thee, Thou lonely dreamer now?
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In secret pleasure — secret tears This changeful life has slipped away
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Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
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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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If I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it.
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I take so little interest in my daily life, that I hardly remember to eat and drink.
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There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou - Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
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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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The entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her.
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I have fled my country and gone to the heather.
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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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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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But there's this one difference: one is gold put to the use of paving-stones, and the other is tin polished to ape a service of silver. Mine has nothing valuable about it yet I shall have the merit of making it go as far as such poor stuff can go. His had first-rate qualities, and they are lost, rendered worst than unavailing.
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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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My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.
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We must be for ourselves in the long run the mild and generous are only more justly selfish than the domineering.
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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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