Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"
Lord Byron (1788 - 1824)
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 25.
Contributed by: Zaady
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto ii. Stanza 23.
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto ii. Stanza 6.
Words are things, and a small drop if ink, Falling like dew upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
The great art of life is the sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state: An hour may lay it in the dust.
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto ii. Stanza 84.
Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,- Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.
Source: English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 839.
Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore.
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 57.
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Source: She Walks in Beauty
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer.
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 107.
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