I wish I could hold you,' she continued, bitterly, 'till we were both dead! I shouldn't care what you suffered. I care… — Emily Brontë Copy Share Image
“Why shouldn’t you suffer? I do! Will you forget me? Will you be happy when I am in the earth? Will you… — Emily Brontë Copy Share Image
What kind of living will it be when you - Oh, God! Would you like to live with your soul in the… — Emily Bronte Copy Share Image
He is more myself than I am. Whatever our two souls are made of, his and mine are the same. — Emily Bronte Copy Share
I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night's decay Ushers in a drearier day. — Emily Brontë Copy Share
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… — Emily Bronte Copy Share
“I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I… — Emily Brontë Copy Share
The entire world is a collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her. — Emily Bronte Copy Share
“Papa talks enough of my defects, and shows enough scorn of me, to make it natural I should doubt myself. I doubt whether I… — Emily Brontë Copy Share
The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most… — Emily Bronte Copy Share
“It is not in him to be loved like me: how can she love in him what he has not?” — Emily Brontë Copy Share
I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing. — Emily Bronte Copy Share
My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. — Emily Bronte Copy Share
Tis moonlight, summer moonlight, All soft and still and fair; The solemn hour of midnight Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere, But most where trees are… — Emily Bronte Copy Share
“It expressed, plainer than words could do, the intense anguish at having made himself the instrument of thwarting his own revenge. Had it been… — Emily Brontë Copy Share
