Oh That The Desert Were My Dwelling-place, With One Fair Spirit For My Minister, That I Might All Forget The Human Race, And Hating No One, Love But Only Her!

History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 108...
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 78...
My native land, good night!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 13...
And what is writ is writ,-- Would it were worthier!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 185...
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo, The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 12...
Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 120...
I see before me the gladiator lie.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 140...
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, Stanza 11...
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 115...