[Childe Harold's Pilgrimage by Lord Byron / Wandgemälde in der Sagenhalle zu Schreiberhau by Herman Hendrich]
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“But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.”
- Lord Byron
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— Lord Byron, from “To the Countess of Blessington.”
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-Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Lord Byron.
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Lord Byron, Lara, A Tale (1814), Canto II, Stanza 22
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She Walks in Beauty, George Gordon Byron
[ Text ID: So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, ]
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𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙱𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚗,
𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚍'𝚜 𝙿𝚒𝚕𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎
[𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝟷𝟾𝟷𝟸]
[ID: There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, END ID]
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“I find fault, and quarrel with Napoleon, as a lover does with the trifling faults of his mistress, from excessive liking, which tempts me to desire that he had been all faultless; and, like the lover, I return with renewed fondness after each quarrel.”
— Lord Byron
Source: Byron, Napoleon, J. C. Hobhouse, and the Hundred Days, By Peter Cochran (x)
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"I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you."
Letters to Milena, Franz Kafka
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Friendship is love without his wings.
Lord George Gordon Byron
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Lord Byron, from "She Walks in Beauty"
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[She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron / The Morning Stars (Les Etoiles Du Matin) (1887) by Sarah Paxton Ball Dodson]
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I live,
But live to die: and, living, see no thing To make death hateful, save an innate clinging,
A loathsome and yet all-invincible Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I Despise myself, yet cannot overcome-And so I live. Would I had never lived!
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Friendship is love without his wings.
Lord George Gordon Byron
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"But Grief should be the Instructor of the wise;
Sorrow is Knowledge: they who know the most
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth,
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life."
— Lord Byron, Manfred (1817)
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When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
When we two parted, Lord Byron
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