The Cold, The Changed, Perchance The Dead, Anew, The Mourn'd, The Loved, The Lost,--too Many, Yet How Few!

Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto i, stanza 5...
And what is writ is writ,-- Would it were worthier!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 185...
Fills The air around with beauty.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 49...
Heaven gives its favourites--early death.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 102...
I see before me the gladiator lie.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 140...
Let these describe the undescribable.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 53...
Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 109...
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 78...
The Ariosto of the North.
-- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 40...