Emily Brontë

Oh! I am my mother's child again - a little child - a helpless, forlorn child.

Should the people on this earth ever destroy each other, it would probably be from their attempt to thwart the designs of Heaven.

The human heart is like a millstone in a mill: it exists to grind out the living.

I am the only being whose doom No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn.

All true voices of the soul are as the bleat of the lamb in the wilderness - prophetic of sacrifice.

I have a peculiar way of looking at things, which I know is not the world's way.

I try to avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward.

The older one grows, the more one feels the impossibility of unwinding oneself.

I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable, I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect.

I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free.

Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.

The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

Riches I hold in light esteem, And Love I laugh to scorn; And lust of fame was but a dream, That vanished with the morn.

In life and death, no more than I: The anguished soul of one poor child Thrills through the heart of Time, for and against the laws of men.

I shall be glad when I see you again, but I am not unhappy now.

Cold in the earth - and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Yet I cannot die, I have not lived.

The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.

No other sun has lightened up my heaven.

Frowns cannot check, nor words control, The mounting joy of life's desire.