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They forgot everything the minute they were together again.

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
Everything
Forgot
Minute
Minutes
Together

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He’s more myself than I am
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I will walk where my own nature would be leading.
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wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
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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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No coward soul is mine.
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Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.
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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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How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me.
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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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Honest people don't hide their deeds.
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Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper!
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Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
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In secret pleasure — secret tears This changeful life has slipped away
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My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods. Time will changeit,I'mwellaware, aswinterchangesthetrees. My Love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneatha source of little visible delight but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff.
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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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It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,' he answered. 'Kiss me again and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?
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He had been content with daily labour and rough animal enjoyments, 'till Catherine crossed his path. Shame at her scorn, and hope of her approval, were his first prompts to higher pursuits and, instead of guarding him from one and winning him to the other, his endeavors to raise himself had produced just the contrary result.
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Oh, for the time when I shall sleep Without identity.
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Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
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