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Lord Byron
Result Navigation: [ 1 ] But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; and the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! Jump To: [ About Us | Links | Daily Quote | Recent Addition | Mail Webmaster | Home ] |