The human heart is like india-rubber; a little swells it, but a great deal will not burst it. If "little more than nothing will disturb it, little less than all things will suffice" to break it. As in the outer members of our frame, there is a vital power inherent in itself that strengthens it against external violence. Every blow that shakes it will serve to harden it against a future stroke; as constant labour thickens the skin of the hand, and strengthens its muscles instead of wasting them away: so that a day of arduous toil, that might excoriate a lady's palm, would make no sensible impression on that of a hardy ploughman.
Anne BronteAbout author
- Author's profession: Novelist
- Nationality: british
- Born: January 17, 1820
- Died: May 28, 1849
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One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washd it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide and made my pains his prey. Vain man (said she) that dost in vain assay. A mortal thing so to immortalise; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wipd out likewise. Not so (quod I); let baser things devise. To die in dust, but you shall live by fame; My verse your virtues rare shall eternise, And in the heavens write your glorious name:...
Edmund Spenser
How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn’t touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn’t resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin’s bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.
Rainer Maria Rilke
