I will walk where my own nature would be leading.

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

The winter wind is loud and wild, Come close to me, my darling child; Forsake thy books, and mate less play; And, while the night is gathering grey, We'll talk its pensive hours away.

A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad and a bad one will turn the bonniest into something worse than ugly.

That is how I'm loved! Well, never mind. That is not my Heathcliff. I shall love mine yet; and take him with me: he's in my soul.

If I could I would always work in silence and obscurity, and let my efforts be known by their results.

He might as well plant an oak in a flowerpot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares!