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Lord George Gordon Byron

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b2140623215цитируетв прошлом году
Letter 10
June 1835
MY BELOVED ANGEL,

I am nearly mad about you, as much as one can be mad: I cannot bring together two ideas that you do not interpose yourself between them.

I can no longer think of nothing but you. In spite of myself, my imagination carries me to you. I grasp you, I kiss you, I caress you, a thousand of the most amorous caresses take possession of me.

As for my heart, there you will always be — very much so. I have a delicious sense of you there. But my God, what is to become of me, if you have de‍
b9607812259цитирует3 месяца назад
Enough of Battle's minions! let them play
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay,
b9607812259цитирует3 месяца назад
Where Desolation plants her famished brood
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive,
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.

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