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English poet
(1788 - 1824)
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I live not in myself, but I become
  Portion of that around me; and to me
    High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
      Of human cities torture.
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 72) [Cities]

. . . Years steal
  Fire from the mind, as vigor from the limb;
    And life's enchanted cut but sparkles near the brim.
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 8) [Age]

Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him
  In soul and aspect as in age; years steal
    Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
      And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 8) [Time]

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
  The hearts bleed longest, and but heal to wear
    That which disfigures it.
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 84) [Wounds]

On the ear
  Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 86)

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep,
  But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 89)

All is concentred in a life intense,
  Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
    But hath a part of being.
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 89) [Life]

In solitude, where we are least alone.
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 90)

Most glorious night!
  Thou wert not sent for slumber!
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 93) [Night]

The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
  With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
    Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
      And living as if earth contained no tomb,--
        And glowing into day.
      - Childe Harold (canto III, st. 98)

Spared and blessed by Time,
  Looking tranquility.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, 146) [Time]

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, l. 177) [Peace]

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
  A palace and a prison on each hand;
    I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise
      As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
        A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
          Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
            O'er the far times, when many a subject land
              Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines,
                Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 1) [Venice]

And be the Spartan's epitaph on me--
  "Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 10)

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
  I planted--they have torn me--and I bleed!
    I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 10) [Results]

Heaven gives its favourites--early death.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 102) [Death]

And history with all her volumes vast,
  Hath but one page.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 108)

  Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 109) [Man]

The nympholepsy of some fond despair.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 115)

Whatsoe'er thy birth,
  Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 115)

Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
  Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 12) [Age]

Who loves, raves--'tis youth's frenzy--but the cure
  Is bitterer still.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 123) [Love]

And circumstance, that unspiritual god,
  And miscreator, makes and helps along
    Our coming evils, with a critch-like rod,
      Whose touch turns hope to dust--the dust we all have trod.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 125)

O Time! the beautifier of the dead,
  Adorner of the ruin, comforter
    And only healer when the heart hath bled--
      Time! the corrector where our judgments err,
        The test of truth, love, sole philosopher,
          For all besides are sophists, from thy thrift
            Which never loses though it doth defer--
              Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift
                My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 130) [Time]

There were his young barbarians all at play
  There was their Dacian mother--he, their sire,
    Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 141)

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