Mi cariño a Heathcliff es como son las rocas del fondo de la tierra, que permanecen eternamente iguales sin cambiar jamás. Es un afecto del que no pu… - Emily Brontë

The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me And I cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
And the storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go. Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me— I will not, cannot go.

Reason, indeed, may oft complain For Nature's sad reality, And tell the suffering heart, how vain Its cherished dreams must always be; And Truth may rudely trample down The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:

But, thou art ever there, to bring The hovering vision back, and breathe New glories o'er the blighted spring, And call a lovelier Life from Death, And whisper, with a voice divine, Of real worlds, as bright as thine.