I've half a mind to tumble down to prose,
More quotes by Lord Byron
How my soul hates This language,
Which makes life itself a lie,
Flattering dust with eternity.
For freedom's battle, once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.
She was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all.
There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
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Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man.
The free-lance writer is a man who is paid per piece or per word or perhaps.
Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on,
Through words and things, a dim and perilous way.
Attribution
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