Any Relic Of The Dead Is Precious,

The Night Is Darkening Round Me, The Wild Winds Coldly Blow; But A Tyrant Spell Has Bound Me, And I Cannot, Cannot Go.

He Leant His Two Elbows On His Knees, And His Chin On His Hands And Remained Rapt In Dumb Meditation. On My Inquiring The Subject Of His Thoughts, He Answered Gravely 'i'm Trying To Settle How I Shall Pay Hindley Back. I Don't Care How Long I Wait, If I Can Only Do It At Last. I Hope He Will Not Die Before I Do!' 'for Shame, Heathcliff!' Said I. 'it Is For God To Punish Wicked People; We Should Learn To Forgive.' 'no, God Won’t Have The Satisfaction That I Shall,' He Returned. 'i Only Wish I Knew The Best Way! Let Me Alone, And I'll Plan It Out: While I'm Thinking Of That I Don't Feel Pain.

Worthless As Wither'd Weeds.

May You Not Rest, As Long As I Am Living. You Said I Killed You - Haunt Me, Then.

Thoughts Are Tyrants That Return Again And Again To Torment Us.