Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
Lord Byron (1788 - 1824)
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto ii. Stanza 2.
Contributed by: Zaady
There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if we have ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.
Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 102.
I am as a weed Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 2.
And there was mounting in hot haste.
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 25.
The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh
To have joy one must share it. Happiness was born a twin.
Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
I'll publish right or wrong. Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 82.
Copyright © 2014 Gaiam, Inc.