Whatever Our Souls Are Made

A Person Who Has Not Done One Half His Day's Work By Ten O Clock, Runs A Chance Of Leaving The Other Half Undone.

The Night Is Darkening Round Me, The Wild Winds Coldly Blow; But A Tyrant Spell Has Bound Me And I Cannot, Cannot Go. The Giant Trees Are Bending Their Bare Boughs Weighed With Snow; The Storm Is Fast Descending, And Yet I Cannot Go. Clouds Beyond Clouds Above Me, Wastes Beyond Wastes Below; But Nothing Drear Can Move Me; I Will Not, Cannot Go.

It Is Strange People Should Be So Greedy, When They Are Alone In The World.

Yet I Was A Fool To Fancy For A Moment That She Valued Edgar Linton's Attachment More Than Mine -- If He Love With All The Powers Of His Puny Being, He Couldn't Love As Much In Eighty Years, As I Could In A Day. And Catherine Has A Heart As Deep As I Have; The Sea Could Be As Readily Contained In That Horse-trough, As Her Whole Affection Be Monopolized By Him -- Tush! He Is Scarcely A Degree Dearer To Her Than Her Dog, Or Her Horse -- It Is Not In Him To Be Loved Like Me, How Can She Love In Him What He Has Not?

He'll Love And Hate Equally Under Cover, And Esteem It A Species Of Impertinence To Loved Or Hated Again.