Hope was but a timid friend.
When winter comes again, Where will these bright things be? All vanished, like a vision vain, An unreal mockery!
Why I have persevered to shun The common paths that others run, And on a strange road journeyed on.
I am now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day.
My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! 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.
My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees.