Who is Emily Bronte

Emily Jane Brontë (/ˈbrɒnti/, commonly /-teɪ/; 30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848) was an English novelist and poet who is best known for her only novel, Wuthering Heights, now considered a classic of English literature. Emily was the third-eldest of the four surviving Brontë siblings, between the youngest Anne and her brother Branwell. She published under the pen name Ellis Bell.

Early life The three Brontë sisters, in an 1834 painting by their brothe...
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Emily Bronte Poems

  • Self-interogation.
    "The evening passes fast away.
    'Tis almost time to rest;
    What thoughts has left the vanished day,
    What feelings in thy breast? ...
  • The Night - Wind
    In summer's mellow midnight,
    A cloudless moon shone through
    Our open parlour window,
    And rose-trees wet with dew. ...
  • Stanzas To ----
    Well, some may hate, and some may scorn,
    And some may quite forget thy name;
    But my sad heart must ever mourn
    Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame! ...
  • Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
    'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
    All soft and still and fair;
    The solemn hour of midnight
    Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere, ...
  • The Philosopher.
    Enough of thought, philosopher!
    Too long hast thou been dreaming
    Unlightened, in this chamber drear,
    While summer's sun is beaming! ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Emily Bronte

Heart 32 Heaven 24 Soul 22 Spirit 22 Sweet 22 Earth 22 Love 21 Away 21 Death 21 I Love You 21


Emily Bronte Quotes

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Comments about Emily Bronte

  • Marifvp: rip emily bronte you would have loved lana del rey
  • Carlolight: every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree. ~emily bronte
  • Neinheroez: girls are cruelest to themselves. someone like emily brontë, who remained a girl all her life despite her body as a woman, had cruelty drifted up in all the cracks of her like spring snow.
  • Shieldofpallas: my ranking of the brontë sisters 1. emily 2. charlotte 3. anne
  • Aongaidee: he's more myself than i am. whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. emily brontë, wuthering heights (catherine’s confusion but she love him.)
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Poem of the day

Vachel Lindsay Poem
On Receiving One Of Gloriana-s Letters
 by Vachel Lindsay

Your pen needs but a ruffle
To be Pavlova whirling.
It surely is a scalawag
A-scamping down the page.
A pretty little May-wind
The morning buds uncurling.
And then the white sweet Russian,
The dancer of the age.
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