Against slavery all right thinkers revolt, and though torture be the price of resistance, torture must be dared: though the only road to freedom lie … - Charlotte Brontë

In sunshine, in prosperity, the flowers are very well; but how many wet days are there in life — November seasons of disaster, when a man's hearth and home would be cold indeed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.

Take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first on earth.

I thought I loved him when he went away; I love him now in another degree: he is more my own. [ . . . ] Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony on waiting shores, listened for that voice, but it was not uttered — not uttered till; when the hush came, some could not feel it: till, when the sun returned, his light was night to some!