George Gordon Noel Byron

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
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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.

So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed read more

So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quivered in his heart.

With eyes that look'd into the very soul--
. . . .
Bright--and as black and burning read more

With eyes that look'd into the very soul--
. . . .
Bright--and as black and burning as coal.

Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!

Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
- Lord Byron (George read more

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron),