He's always, always in my mind — not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself — but as my own being. - Emily Brontë

I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing.

For that mist may break when the sun is high And this soul forget its sorrow And the rose ray of the closing day May promise a brighter morrow.

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: