Do not move, do not go. Sink within this moment. Hold it for ever.

Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.

If only she could put them together, she felt, write them out in some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of things.

and even a tea party means apprehension, breakage

It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality.

I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose.

But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.