The Poetical Works of Lord Byron, Volume 3

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Page 327 - Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.
Page 358 - As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him...
Page 358 - I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape...
Page 314 - In that same hour and hall, the fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, and wrote as if on sand : The fingers of a man ; — a solitary hand Along the letters ran, and traced them like a wand.
Page 358 - Which colour'd all his objects: he had ceased To live within himself; she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all: upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek change tempestuously— his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony.
Page 359 - That in the antique Oratory shook His bosom in its solitude ; and then — As in that hour— a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced...
Page 359 - With a convulsion— then arose again, And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears...
Page 328 - Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away: Still thine own its life retaineth, Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is — that we no more may meet.
Page 175 - Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low. So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that...
Page 335 - My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine ; Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : Go where I will, to me thou art the same — A loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny, — A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

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